


Malediction

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Alternate Universe - Ladyhawke Fusion, Curses, Eventual Smut, Ladyhawk, M/M, Magical Realism, Romance, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Supernatural Elements, Wolves, hawks, slightly messy death, spoilers in reviews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cursed to a half-life, John and Sherlock must fight the forces of evil to be reunited once again. Based on the movie Ladyhawke.<br/>mal·e·dic·tion<br/>ˌmaləˈdikSHən/<br/>noun<br/>noun: malediction; plural noun: maledictions<br/>1.<br/>a magical word or phrase uttered with the intention of bringing about evil or destruction; a curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat sort of based on Ladyhawke – a lot of the ideas & plot will be from that but with my own twists.  
> I hope to have the first real chapter up this week:)  
> Thanks to johnsarmylady & mattsloved1 for checking it over for me:)  
> I hope you enjoy.  
> I don’t own. Sad that:)

_I remember the last night we had together and I hold it close inside, as precious a gift as any I have ever received. It moves in front of me. I can almost touch the heft and weight as if it were tangible. The colours are bright and sharp, like painted glass with the sun streaming through, sun John hasn’t seen with human eyes for nearly two years or more. It is the clearest memory I have, much richer than anything that happened yesterday or the day before. Much purer than the other memories I retain as the wolf. Those are completely animal and instinct, all betrayal of my intellect and self-control. His appetites are base and simplistic. They are about transport and survival. Or protection of the one I love above all others._

_That night, that last perfect, heartbreaking night, the firelight gleamed bright, picking out the gold in his hair, gold, brown and gray I only see in the feathered wings any more. As the wolf, I don’t see the bright colours and as the human, feathers are different from hair._

_He sat in his chair, arms on his knees in that way he has and leaned forward and laughed, the crow’s feet in the corners, warm and familiar. I reached out and cupped my hand to his face, awed that I was finally allowed this. We both reached at the same time and then we kissed, simply, chastely, reverently. It was as easy as breathing._

_He stood and took me by the hand and led me to my bedroom. There he unwrapped me slowly, taking off one piece of clothing, stealing kisses in between. My breath stilled, as he stroked his hand up my spine, fingers playing against my skin in such a way as if he had done this all of his life, as if we had known each other from lifetime to lifetime. I was lowered to the mattress and held close, as I shook and stammered, called his name and prayed to all of the gods I hadn’t believed in until the world changed. We fell asleep in each other’s arms, drifting, thinking we had fooled them, that we were secure. But then the first cursed dawn came. We felt the tremor in the air and heard the unseen speaker chant the words and before my eyes, the sun’s rays touched John and he changed, changed into the hawk, wild and agitated, trying to fly on unfamiliar wings. It was a sight I have beheld every dawn since, only now I see it begin with the eyes of the wolf and feel the sorrow of the wolf as it changes into the rage of the man. It’s sometimes more than I can bear. I have thought of ending it for us both. But how can I when I hold on to hope that I might touch him once more, hear his voice speak my name, feel his fingers card through my hair rather than through my fur?_

_For we are damned, John and I, always to be together, never to touch or speak or love, never to know each other as humans, flesh and blood turned to feathers and fur; they didn’t even give us that._

_This will be my last entry. For tomorrow, for better or worse, tomorrow we either change the curse the gods wrought upon us or we die and end this miserable half-life. Wiggins has finally brought me word._

_Tomorrow, in front of Magnussen, Janine and Mary we end this._

_All is ready._


	2. The Thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the start – I have used a lot of elements from both the movies and the series but I have also changed a lot of things – this is the way I wanted it to be:)  
> I hope you enjoy this version.  
> I owe many thanks to my lovely friends johnsarmylady and mattsloved1 for looking this over and putting up with me:)
> 
> I have borrowed a few words and sentences from the movie and the series. I do not own. Hmmmm. That’s too bad:(

_Two months earlier_

 There were rumours and sightings of a man and a huge black wolf that roamed the streets at night who healed the injured and protected the people. Others whispered of a tall, clever-minded man who walked in the light, with a large hawk on his shoulder. He wasn’t afraid to talk to the common people or the Fey. He was respected but most stayed out of the way of the sharpness of his tongue.

 With hope in the sound of their voices, folk whispered they had come to stop all the wrongdoing heaped upon the heads of the destitute; the petty crimes The Watch neither cared about, nor controlled. In the silence of the dark, when prayers are held tight to the heart, if a stray thought asked that these men and their beasts put a stop to the immoralities done by the Mage and his people, well, then no one was the wiser and no harm could fall upon someone for an idle thought.

 No one connected the two men and their familiars to each other. Not until dawn broke the night of Bonfires and then only one there knew it for what it was.

 In the abandoned house on the outskirts of the city centre, the thief Wiggins sat curled up and hunched, making himself as small as possible. The night sky had opened up and the rain, which had begun falling a few hours ago, was now hitting the ground and freezing on contact. At least it was just water and not anything deadly or magical, like sometimes happened in the summer. Many had come to seek shelter here, even if it was a known drug den, or perhaps because it was.

 It was his turn to guard the door, make sure those who had come to lose themselves in the dream world of a drug induced stupor, were not disturbed. Leaning up against an inner wall, he was muttering and talking to himself. Petty criminal and sometime drug user, he often went by the name Wiggy. Some called him that because they thought he was as mad as a March hare. He mumbled and spoke out loud all of the time. Behind his back some called him Mouse, since he was small, light and could crawl in and out of any space, no matter how tight. He’d managed to get away from the Watch on many a raid by use of these skills. He didn’t like Mouse much. He didn’t think it was grand enough or struck fear into anyone.

 He was an oddity. He didn’t worship the gods, the way most did now days; hard not to when the gods walked the streets in broad view. He followed the old Christian ways of the Catholic Church, which had mostly gone out of fashion. It was the way he had been raised and it was one warm memory from his childhood. He could barely remember what it was like before the Change. He remembered the soft glow of light that put the dark at bay, vague memories of flickering, moving pictures on something called the telly. He remembered a loving embrace and hot food every night. He also remembered screams and fires and panic when things stopped working and the magic came, when the world shifted and science was mostly replaced by miracle. He didn’t remember, or choose to remember, how his parents died. He did remember his sister being taken away by the Mage’s men, led away for his own perverted uses to the fortress and palace that use to be the Tower. He did remember learning how to steal small trinkets from those well off and trade them. He did remember his first hit of the new street drug brought in by the Fey. He didn’t remember when he received his last hit. It had been awhile and he was shaking, not just from the cold.

 “I know I promised, Lord, never again. But I also know that You know what a weak-willed person I am. I ain’t touched a drop in weeks, I’m certain, but really if this is to be my last night, surely You won’t begrudge me. A little comfort in this lonely world, Lord?”

 He shifted a bit trying to get into a more comfortable spot, perhaps warmer as well, when the door opened and someone came into the house. More than one. Two. One upright and one on four feet. These days you never knew what might walk in unannounced.

 In case whatever was coming toward him was something not wanted, he turned his head to track it. He scrunched up and tried to be less of a target, but when he saw what came through, he let out a squeak of surprise and fear and automatically crossed himself. A large, black, shaggy dog was padding toward him, sniffing the ground. It stopped and lifted its head, staring where he was hidden. Its large ears perked and swivelled in his direction. He blinked and looked again.

 “Dear God, Almighty! That’s a wolf! Lord, if you let it eat me tonight, I may warm its belly, but it won’t be much comfort to me!” His breath rushed out of his lungs and he couldn’t move, shock held him in place. He had heard the stories making the rounds on the streets, but had scoffed at the idea of a man walking with a wolf. It appeared that he was mistaken.

 So mesmerized by the wolf, he had forgot the man trailing after. As he came into sight, the movement snapped Wiggins from his stupor. He glanced quickly and had the quick impression of short, powerfully built and blonde. There seemed to be an air of calm that hung around the man as well. Not surprising. One could be calm and fearless when one had a wolf at their side.

 The shorter man stepped closer and crouched down beside Wiggins, shifting the weight of the pack he carried upon his back.

 “I’m looking for someone. Perhaps he is here.”

 Wiggins’ mouth flapped open to speak and then he snapped it closed again, eyes darting back and forth from the man to the wolf.

 The wolf had not stopped watching the thief, its eyes gleamed soft silver in the fairy lights shining through the broken windows. The man looked at the wolf. He leaned back a bit on his heels and stroked a hand though the wolf’s rough hair. The wolf seemed to relax into the touch. In a fanciful sort of mood, Wiggins felt they spoke without words, for it abruptly sat on its haunches and looked oddly bored, as it stared around the room.

 The man turned back to look at him.

“I am searching for a young man named Isaac Hudson. Is he here?”

 With the wolf’s eyes somewhere else and no longer on him, Wiggins felt a little braver.

 “You ain’t needed here. If there were such as Isaac around, he don’t want you to see him.”

 The man cocked his head to the side and suddenly there emanated from him a feeling of danger. The man exuded power and mystery and Wiggins felt with a twinge that perhaps he should have taken him by the hand and led him straight to Hudson, maybe stopping for flowers along the way. Before he could say anything, the man reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. A light twist and sharp pain flared through Wiggins’ arm.

 “Ow! What was that for?”

 “I asked you a question. I expect an answer. Is Isaac Hudson here or not? I am not a patient man.”

 “You broke my arm!”

 “No, I merely sprained it. You’d know if I broke it.” The wolf stood up again and came nearer to the little thief. It seemed a good deal bigger up close. A low growl emanated from deep within its chest, which was felt more than heard.

 Wiggins gulped. “Upstairs. Second room on the right.”

 The same small but firm hand reached out and ruffled his hair. “There you go. That wasn’t so bad, was it? You know you needn’t worry. I’m not here to hurt Isaac.”

 “But my arm! It feels squishy! Is it supposed to feel squishy? You sure you didn’t break it?”

 “It’s not broken.” This was said with a hint of kindness; as if he really felt what he had done was distasteful, even if it had been necessary. “I used to be a doctor. I know how these things work.”

 “Most doctors I know don’t do much else but hurt people.”

 “Yes, well. Times have changed. Maybe they will again.”

 And with that, the man left. The wolf trailed behind him, but not before it flicked an ear in Wiggins’ direction and let out what sounded like an exasperated huff. It trotted up the stairs after the man.

 “Lord, if I hadn’t seen that with my own eyes.” He shook his head, the movement jarring his arm enough to cause him to wince.

 He thought about getting up to see what the man, and presumably the wolf, wanted with Isaac, but the pain radiating from his wrist was most distracting. He searched around beside him for the small pack he kept his few belongings in. He rummaged around and found an old scarf and wrapped it around his wrist to see if he could ease some of the pain.

 By the time he finished, the man and the wolf, with Isaac in tow, were coming back down the stairs. Isaac, obviously heavily under the influence of the Fey drug, was muttering about being manhandled, but by the look of determination on the other’s face, it was a losing battle.

 “Your aunt is a good person and she needs your help. You are coming with me and you _will_ clean up your act and give her a hand or so help me you’ll wish I had turned you over to the Watch.”

 “But Captain Watson…”

 The man, Watson, stopped on the stairs and turned to face Isaac, who was swaying slightly on his feet. “Isaac, I’m not your Captain any more. I haven’t been Captain of anything for several years.” This was delivered in a rather matter of fact tone, but shadows played on his face, dark and thick. Wiggins, who was a curious man and saw things other did not, wondered what had happened to cause such grief in someone who seemed so sure, so in control and more than a little scary.

 The wolf, waiting by Watson’s side, nudged the man’s hand as if telling him to get a move on. Watson looked down at the animal. He seemed to drift for a bit in thought as he once more ran his fingers through the coarse hair. He shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs of memories, and turned to continue down the stairs, Isaac trailing miserably behind. When Watson reached the bottom, he glanced over at Wiggins and frowned. He sighed and marched over to where he was still sitting, his eyes glanced at the makeshift wrap.

 “What’s your name?” he asked, unexpectedly.

 “Wiggins, most call me Wiggy.”

 The man stooped down to him again. “Bill Wiggins? Some call you the Mouse?”

 Wiggins nodded, reluctantly.

 “Hmmm, I’ve heard of you Mr. Wiggins.” Dark eyes stared at him. Wiggins felt he was being examined even more thoroughly than he had been the first time. “Tell me, are you as good as they say, crawling into tight spaces? Can you really break into anywhere?”

 He nodded again, more cautiously, but was too afraid not to give an honest response. Watson seemed to come to a decision.

 “Here,” he held out a hand. “Come with me and I’ll fix that.”

 Wiggins looked at the proffered hand and then grasped it with his uninjured one. Watson pulled him to his feet. He wondered at his sudden trust of this dangerous and strange man. The look in the Captain’s eye seemed to hint at a challenge. _Come with me_ , it seemed to say, _and you will see wonders_. As Wiggins was a bit mad already, he gave in to the impulse and took the offer. It was better than playing guard in a house full of addicts. He reached down and picked up his pack and thought some more. This man had said he was a doctor and part of him just wanted relief. He followed the men and wolf out. Watson opened the door and cautiously looked about.

 “Okay. We have about 10 minutes before the Watch descends and we get swept up in a scheduled raid, so keep an eye out gentlemen and let’s get the hell out of here.” He pulled up the collar of his leather and wool coat, trying to stem the flood of water running off the roof from trickling down his neck. “Careful now. The roads are slick. I don’t want to have to fix up more than a sprain.”

 They darted out as quickly as they could, as they scurried from corner to corner, hiding in the lee of the buildings. When they were far enough away, Watson relaxed a bit and they began to make better time. They still stuck to the shadows and out of the fairy lights as much as possible. The fairies would report them if they thought there was something suspicious going on. It wasn’t just the Watch one had to be careful of. There were other things out there that could hurt you or make you wish you hadn’t been born. Steady travel for about an hour or so brought them to an old run down building, which looked like it had once been flats. With another glance around, Watson knocked softly on the door. It was cracked open and a face appeared. There was a furtive conversation and the door opened fully. Wiggins could make out the figure of an older lady. He could see at one time she would have carried herself well, a gentle lady perhaps. Her carriage was still upright and proud, but her face was careworn. She spoke past the Captain when she saw her wayward nephew.

 “Oh Isaac, what have you done now. Your mother, rest her soul, would be so sad to see you like this. Come in, come in. John, how can I thank you. I was that worried.”

 Watson leaned and let her hug him. “Careful now. I’m wet.” But a small smile touched his lips to take out the sting of the abrupt words. “Do you have anything I can use to wrap a sprain? My friend here seems to have received an injury.” The lady tsked and fussed but led the men and the wolf to a set of rooms at the back of the building. She scolded the wolf impartially as it shook itself and sprayed water over everything. “You’ll be cleaning that up tomorrow.” The wolf looked up at the woman and let its tongue dangle from its mouth. It seemed to be laughing at her. She turned and took in the surprised look on Wiggins’ face. “Oh don’t mind him. He’s an old friend.”

 Once they were inside her rooms, she firmly closed the inner door. Isaac was directed to a back bedroom to ‘sleep it off’, while John and Wiggins were brought into the kitchen. She pushed the thief into a chair and bustled about getting bandages and water. Watson, meanwhile, scrubbed his hands. He held out his clean and dried hand and gazed steadily at the man in the chair. Unsure where this feeling of trust came from, Wiggins held out his injured wrist and let the man gently unwrap the scarf. His arm was carefully washed and dried and wrapped tight in a long piece of clean cloth. After tucking in the ends, the Captain nodded sharply and cleaned up the left over mess.

 He then spoke to the old lady.

 “Can we kip here tonight? It’s near time and we won’t make it back before dawn.

 “Of course, dear. You old rooms are still clean as usual. You could sleep in Sherlock’s old room and your friend here could use yours. I really wish you’d stay. It’s better with you nearby.”

 A brief flair of loss crossed his features, but the stoic look was back just as quick on the Captain’s face. He reached out and hugged the woman. Wiggins could just hear him murmur to her “Martha, you know it isn’t safe. Magnussen knows we are back and it worries me greatly he hasn’t made a move yet. We would be putting you in danger.” He paused. “More danger than you already are. He knows about you.”

 Her face crinkled into a smile “He’s the least scary thing I know. He wasn’t married to my husband.” A tentative smile tugged at the corners of the man’s face. Wiggins was greatly intrigued. There was so much to see, so much going on between these two, he could read it all, a story played on their faces.

 Watson glanced at Wiggins. “All right. You can sleep here for the night.”

 Wiggins reached out his good arm, “Why?”

 Watson crinkled up his brow, “Why what?”

 “Why did you sprain my wrist, only to fix it and why are you letting me stay here?’

 “Because sometimes people are good,” was all he said and he started to leave, when he paused. “Perhaps I am hoping you will do me a favour.” He continued on as if he hadn’t paused and the wolf, who had been dozing in front of the old wood stove, climbed to its feet and followed his master.

 Wiggins picked up his pack and came behind, muttering under his breath, “You know I go where you send me, Lord, but this is one strange journey, even for me.”

 The two men and the wolf ascended the set of stairs and arrived in another flat. Watson, with the familiarity of someone who had lived in this space, set about lighting the oil lamp just inside the door. He made his way through the flat and lit several more.

 “What, no fairy lights?” It seemed strange not to look at the little faces that peered out from the glass globes most kept in their homes these days.

 Watson glanced at him, “No. Not here long enough to feed them and besides, I think it’s cruel, keeping them caged. Wild things need to be free.” His face grew thoughtful, before he shook himself and spoke once more. “Take this lamp and go up one more floor, you’ll find a room with a bed. Mrs. Hudson keeps things neat and changes the sheet regularly. She lives in hope we’ll come back. When you awake in the morning, I will most likely not be here, but if you run into my friend, tell him to ask if you’ll help.”

 “Help with what?”

 A crooked grin pulled at the man’s mouth but in the shadows from the lamp, it did not appear to reach his eyes.

 “I think I’ll let him explain. Good night, Wiggins. Or I should say, good morning as it is almost upon us.” With that he left and turned into another room, the wolf trotted after him. As it reached the threshold it turned back and gave Wiggins a measured stare, eerily like the one Watson had given him in the drug house. It flicked an ear and then left to follow the Captain.

 “Curious and curiouser, Lord.”

 Questions circled in and out and settled in his brain. They would have to wait for the day. Wiggins found another set of stairs and followed them up to the other room. As promised, a warm bed awaited him. He didn’t even pause to shuck off much besides his boots and his pack. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

 John shut the bedroom door carefully behind him and turned the lock. He looked to see the wolf had already made its way onto the bed and was curled up amongst the pillows. A soft smile lit the man’s face, this time making his eyes glow. “Made yourself comfortable, I see. You always were a hog when it came to the pillows.” He put down the pack he’d been carrying onto a chair and began to undress. He was a bit hastier than usual. The rhythms of the rise and fall of the sun were ingrained into his very molecules and he could feel the turn of the earth as it carried them closer to dawn. His thoughts were already becoming muddled. He frowned as he thought about what he wanted to say. “I don’t have time to write this down, so good luck meeting the fellow upstairs. I think I may have found our thief.” He climbed naked onto the bed. The wolf whined and licked his face. “Shhh, not much longer now, love. We’re that much closer to the end of this mess.” The first tremor hit his muscles and he stiffened. A gasp clawed its way out of his throat and the wolf whined again. “It’s never not painful! Christ!”

 He bent his head and let the curse take him.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. The Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for looking this over.
> 
> Usually disclaimers, yada, yada, etc.

The sun was warm on Wiggins’ face when he finally roused. He had one of the best night’s sleep he’d had in a long time. He was comfortable and no one was trying to rob him of his few meagre possessions or slit his throat. Normally he would have slept with an eye toward someone coming into the room but there was something about this place that lulled him into a deeper slumber.

 The light in the room wasn’t what disturbed him however and neither did the dull ache in his wrist, which now that he was awake was demanding some attention. It was the odd noise coming from downstairs. A shriek or a cry, but it didn’t sound human. It was a wild sound, like a bird. Underneath it was a deep rumble. Someone was speaking, but not the mad fellow, that doctor or captain or whatever he was, from last night. His voice was higher. It hadn’t vibrated through his head like this one did. He rubbed his face, threw back the covers and slipped his shoes on. Having gone to bed fully clothed that was really all there was to it.

 He crept down the stair, wary and nervous, and peered into the living room. There was no sign of the doctor. A taller, dark haired man stood near the table, his back to him. The deep voice spoke murmured words, which could just be made out.

 “You are upset. You are always upset in the morning. I need to check first. I will let you out to fly just as soon as I speak to Mrs. Hudson.”

 Wiggins saw whom or rather what he was speaking to. A magnificent bird, a hawk he thought, was perched on the back of one of the chairs by the table. It was many shades of brown with hints of grey, black and gold accenting the feathers. The man was stroking and scratching the head, on the crown and around the eyes and beak. Large, dark eyes swept the room and when they fixed upon the figure in the door, it cried again, a voice both desolate and fierce, speaking of skies, the wind and clouds and loss, but also commanding. Wiggins thought the bird was telling the strange man to turn around, someone was here.

  _What an odd thought._ He brushed it aside. The bird wasn’t really telling the man. It was a bird, a hunting bird. Of course it would notice him there, observe the movement in the shadows. He really didn’t have more time to think anything else, because the taller man whirled around.

 “Who are you? Come out where I can see you. Slow and steady. Don’t be stupid.”

 Wiggins entered the living room cautiously.

 He got a better look at the man in the room. Dark, curly hair fell over silver eyes, the colour of which seemed to shift with the light, tall but not as tall as some, lean and hungry, but not for food. For knowledge, information and something else. Something was missing in this man. There was a bottomless ache, a hole. Something he had lost or caused to lose. There were endless depths of sorrow he tried to hide in his eyes. Wiggins was thinking all of these things furiously, wondering why, why did he have these thoughts about a stranger. There was also something about him that reminded him of the doctor, a similar loneliness, a similar fierce intensity, a similar agony.

 “And who might you be?” A rather posh voice asked.

 “Er, sorry your governorship, sir. They call me Wig.”

 “No, they don’t.”

 He blushed. “Wiggy or okay, Mouse.”

 “But what is your name?”

 “Wiggins, Bill Wiggins.”

 The man’s eyes skimmed back and forth rapidly, glancing at his face and other parts, studying him. The long face finally settled into an expression of recognition. Like the other fellow, he had heard of him. The thief wasn’t sure he liked that.

 “Well Bill Wiggins, what are you doing in my flat? Does Mrs. Hudson know you are here?”

 “Er, yeah, I was brought here last night. Against my will, I might add.”

 “Who was it?”

 “Beg pardon?”

 “Oh, good lord. Why must imbeciles always surround me? Who brought you here?”

 “Small fellow. Mad he was, tetchy too. He sprained my wrist. Said I could kip here. I really need to go now.” He began edging toward the stairs but was stopped. Not sure how it had happened but suddenly the man was standing in his space, blocking his way to the stair.

 “You saw him? You spoke to him?” And the wild, hungry look intensified, craving and yearning, but not comforting, not a hunger to be satisfied by food and drink. It was dangerous, feral, like the look of a wolf denied nourishment, but of the soul not the gut.

 “Yeah, sprained my wrist, he did.”

 The taller man backed down a bit, the fire in his eyes dampened as he realised where he was and that it was neither the time nor place. He waved his hand in the air dismissively.

 “I’m sure he had cause. He never does things without cause. Never mind then. I will speak with Mrs. Hudson. You will wait here. Don’t touch the bird. He’s in a mood. He’ll do more to you than a sprain.”

 Then he turned and headed down the stairs to the ground floor. Wiggins cocked his head and mentally shrugged. They were all insane here. “Lord, it was easier on the streets. At least there I recognized the mad ones _and_ stayed away from them. Just saying.”

 He looked back at the bird, which was watching him carefully. It raised its wings slightly and squawked and then shook itself.

 “You and me both, bird.”

 Wiggins headed into the kitchen to see if there was any food. The table was covered with old, dusty equipment that looked like it came out of a lab or a doctor’s workshop. He rummaged through the cupboards. There was an old style fridge in the corner, but since there was no longer anything like electricity he didn’t bother looking in there. He had heard some of the richer families employed magic of the Fey to keep food cold, but that was a luxury most didn’t have. The poor in this time and age got their ice in the winter not the summer. He wistfully remembered eating something called ice cream back in the day.

 He wandered back out to the living room. By the fire there was a small kettle on a chimney crane. The fire was still burning brightly. Perhaps the tall man had stirred it up this morning. He found water in the kitchen in a barrel and filled the kettle. It would take time to heat. He was sure he’d seen bread on the side. He went out to cut some and brought it back into the other room. Sat in front of the fire, he popped the bread on a toasting fork he found and held it next to the glowing coals near the base of the fire, slowly turning it until it was browned up nicely. When the water boiled, he found a mug and some tea that didn’t look too stale and brewed a cup. He sat back in the chair and munched at the toast. It was a bit dry but it was better food than he had most mornings. He could hear the bird behind him as it sorted through its feathers, preening and cleaning them, the odd rustling as it shook itself. He glanced over at it. The bird’s head turned to watch him. He thought it looked hungry so he held out a piece of toast carefully and kept his fingers as far away from the sharp beak. The bird twisted and craned its neck at an impossible angle and made a little hop on the chair back, closer to the toast.

 “So what’s your story? The other guy had himself a wolf.”

 “Don’t talk to him. And certainly don’t feed him toast,” came an exasperated sigh from behind him. The bird cried out, sounding put out when the toast was withdrawn. The man looked at the bird with fond irritation. “As much as you love toast, you can’t eat it right now.”

 Wiggins sat up and saw the old lady from last night, Hudson, had followed him into the room.

 “Here you go, dear,” she said as she placed a tray down upon the table.

 His nose was assaulted by the lovely odours of bacon and eggs and, “Oh please Lord, are those scones?”

 Wiggins stood up, tossed his dry toast into the fire and moved to sit down at the table. The hawk chose that moment to spread his wings in a massive stretch and beat at the air. The little thief stopped where he was, shuffled his feet, his stomach rumbled at the tantalizing smells.

 Mrs. Hudson loaded a plate and handed it to him. “Now dear, you mustn’t mind him. He just needs to get outside and fly a bit. Sherlock, I checked and it’s safe. The brownie said she was talking to Mrs. Turner’s and there hasn’t been much interest from the Watch for several days now. They are looking elsewhere. Let him out. He’ll just get cranky.” She patted the arm of the Sherlock fellow. He smiled at her, a warm smile that didn’t quite look at home on his face, and held his arm out to the bird. The bird shrieked and glided toward the other man. It landed on the outstretched limb, onto a padded sleeve. Looking at the long, wicked claws wrapped around the man’s arm he could see why. The bird was carried out to the landing and up the stairs. The tall man was back in a few moments without the bird and stood looking at the thief.

 Uncomfortable under his intense gaze, Wiggins ignored it and continued to eat. He tried savouring the rich food but he was so hungry he just kept shovelling it in. The other man raised an eyebrow at his eating habits.

 “So you are Bill Wiggins?”

 “I said that, didn’t I?”

 “You’re a thief.”

 “Yeah, look the other guy was interested too, what’s up with that? He said to tell you to ask if I’d help. You need something stole? ‘Cause it’ll cost you.” Might as well lay down the rules hard and fast if he was going to get involved in any of this and he wasn’t saying he was.

 “The other fellow did, did he?” he drawled out, a hint of sarcasm peppering his voice.

 “Yeah, what’s his name, Watson? Walks like he’s got a broom up his arse.”

 The man looked down at the ground, a shuttered look on his face, his eyes flicked back and forth rapidly. When he looked up again, the fierce light was back.

 “You have questions.”

 “Uh, yeah. Where’s the other fellow?”

 “Not your concern. Next.”

 “Okay, uh, er, who are you?”

 “The name is Sherlock Holmes. That’s all you need to know for now.”

 “Okay, um. So now what?”

 “Did the other fellow say why he wanted me to ask for your help?”

 “Nope, he just asked me if I was the Wiggins who could crawl into small spaces or break into anywhere.”

“And you said yes. You like to feel important. You like people to know that about you, don’t you?”

 “What if I do? Everyone’s got something special about them. Me, it’s breaking and entering.”

 Holmes looked like he was debating about what to say next. When he did speak it was the last thing Wiggins was expecting to be asked,

 “What do you know about breaking into the Tower?”

 Wiggins dropped his fork. The clatter of it hitting the plate rang through the heavy silence. A cold heaviness settled in his stomach and all the rich food seemed to curdle in an instant. Holmes knew, he didn’t know how, but he knew.

 “You’re as mad as him, ain’t you? Break into the Tower? Into Appledore? You’re cracked, you are. No one can break in there.”

 “Ah, but I happen to know for a fact that you broke out of it.”

 “That’s it. I’m out of here. I don’t know how you know and I don’t want to know. Thanks for the food, but I need to get my sorry arse back on the street, where it’s safe and away from the likes of you lot.”

 Long fingers, strong and firm wrapped around his bicep. “Oh no, you don’t. You will stay here and you will tell me what you know. Or I’ll turn you into the Watch myself.”

 “Ha, that’s a laugh. I saw your face and heard that old lady…”

 “Mrs. Hudson.”

 “All right Mrs. Hudson, I heard her tell you they were keeping an eye out for you, so you ain’t likely to turn me in.”

 “Perhaps not, but I know others who will. Interesting, don’t you think? You were captured and imprisoned in Appledore. You escaped but you still hang about. Aren’t you worried they’ll find you?”

 Wiggins looked miserably around the room and then back at Holmes. “Look, I know what they do there. I know if they wanted me bad enough, they’d come after me, but they ain’t interested in me. That Mage, he’s got other things on his mind.” He paused and cocked his head, his own brown eyes swept up and down Holmes. “He’d be more interested in you than a lowly thief, wouldn’t he?”

 “Possibly. What makes you think so?”

 “I deduce things, see. I know stuff about people. Just goes into my head, it does.”

 The other man rolled his eyes, but he didn’t say anything for moment, and then, “What if I paid you? I can make it worth your while. I don’t actually need you to break in. I just need you to tell me how you broke out.”

 “Nope.”

 “I can help you find out about your sister.”

 Eyes big and round looked half crazed at Holmes. “No, just no! That is not happening. She disappeared a long time ago and me knowing what happened to her ain’t gonna bring her back. No!”

 He looked down at the ground, his hands clenched at sides, his chest heaved. Then he looked back at Homes. “How’d you know? About my sister, how?”

 “You aren’t the only one who can _deduce_.” A grin, not a nice one, flitted across the smug bastard’s face. “All right, fine. You won’t help. Is there anyone else you know of who could tell me these things? Anyone, besides you?”

 Wiggins thought for a moment. There could be no harm in telling him. “No, no one ‘cept me. I often wondered if it was a joke, they let me escape. Just to give others hope, like. But no.”  
  
Holmes face sank a little. He shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to figure out something else.”  
The little thief watched the other man. Something made him ask, “Why do you want to break in for?”

 “To kill the Mage of course.”

 “You’re serious?”

 “Yes.”

 A hope, a kindled flame of desire for things he couldn’t have, a terrible, bright longing filled him and he almost couldn’t breathe. He stared at the other man. _He’s mad, Lord, plain and simple, but thank you for leading me to him._ “What do you need to know?”

 The feeling of intensity he held inside was mirrored on Holmes’ face. The tall man did a little half jump in the air and a fierce “Yes!” pulled itself out of his throat. “Ah, Wiggins! You are a marvel. I will owe you so much for this.”  
  
“Yeah, you’d better.”

 “Gather your things. We can’t stay here again tonight. It isn’t safe.” He disappeared through the kitchen.

 Wiggins nodded and ran up to get his pack. By the time he came back down, Holmes had also returned carrying a pack and holding several other smaller items he was shoving into the pockets, here and there.

 “We shall go down and say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. She’ll have provision for us. We will then go to pay a visit to an old friend. Well, when I say friend…” Whilst he was talking he swept on a long wool coat and wrapped a blue scarf about his neck. “Let’s go.”

 Wiggins sighed wistfully, looked at the cosy fire and the remains of his nice breakfast and followed after the man.

 Mrs. Hudson met them with a large package of what the thief sincerely hoped was food in her hands. She passed it to Holmes, who placed it in his pack. A look of sorrow was on her face. “Must you leave so soon, Sherlock? You just got here.”

 “I’m sorry, but it isn’t safe for us to stay here and you know it.” He paused and opened his mouth as if to say something. She hugged him tight, which prevented him from speaking. He carefully wrapped his long arms about her and squeezed back gently.

 “Don’t you dare say goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. You come back when you can. Get this nasty business sorted.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. “That is for John.” She pecked the other. “And that is for you. Look after each other.”  
  
He smiled, a tight smile, “We always do.”

 She patted his cheek, one last touch. “Just be careful. You’ve been seen out about too much, lately.”

 The man just smirked and left the building, trailed most glumly by the thief.

 Puddles from the rain the night before, lay on the pavement, bits of blue sky reflected in them. Holmes looked up, lifted his fingers to his lips and blew a sharp whistle. Up high in the sky a tiny speck could be seen. It began to circle and grew bigger every second. Just as Wiggins realised it was the hawk, there was a whoosh of sound and he instinctively ducked his head to avoid being buffeted by the edge of a wing.

 He glared at the hawk now perched on the other’s arm again, the coat also padded. Attached to the bird’s feet were jesses, which Holmes carefully wrapped in his hand. A fond look crossed the man’s face, gentle and loving, out of character with most things the thief had seen regarding him.

 “Did you have a good flight?” The bird cried out once, his beak open, looking like he was panting.

 The bird turned and looked at Wiggins with bright eyes and then clacked its beak at him. It bobbed its head up and down as if in greeting. Whilst it was occupied with the thief, Holmes pulled a hood out of the coat pocket opposite and deftly hooded the bird. Wiggins raised his eyebrows.  
  
Holmes didn’t say anything, just continued fastening the hood.

 “He doesn’t like me much.”

 “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the one who doesn’t like you.”

 “Good to know.”

 They began walking out into the city, heading north, sticking to the back alleyways and side streets. The day was fine so there were many out and about, some human, some not. They tried to avoid contact with most of the pedestrians.

 They stopped near a corner where a tall, willowy looking creature stood. Holmes told him to wait and he went up to it. Wiggins could see them speak but couldn’t make out what they said. A small package was removed from the large coat, handed to the creature and Holmes walked back to where Wiggins waited.

 "This way,” he said.

 “Was that an Ent?”

 Holmes turned and looked at him, his face riddled with scorn. “A what?”

 “An Ent. Me dad, he read me a story about little furry footed creatures. There were talking trees in it, called Ents. I liked them. There are so many new creatures these days, I just wondered.”

 “Not an Ent. Ents aren’t real. A woodwife. The man I am looking for is married to one. There aren’t many in London. Too polluted, even now. The woodwives prefer the countryside, but they are a tight knit community and know one another. I was able to discover where the man I am looking for is living.”

 “Looked like a guy. Why are they called woodwives?”

 “They are actually gender neutral and you talk too much. Shut up.”

 “So this guy you know is married to a woodwife who isn’t a he or a she? Huh.”

 Holmes glared at him

 “Not judging!” Wiggins held up his hands. “Takes all kinds.”

 Another glare, so he trailed along in silence.

 For about two blocks.

 “How much farther?” Silence met him again.

 They tramped across what felt like half of the city until they came to some row houses with what at one time had been uniform fronts, but had been decorated and adapted since the Change. The variety of people living in London these days had brought with them their own styles and design by whatever denizen lived in them now. Some were plain but some were beautiful with wild colours or strange attachments. Holmes walked up to the third one, the front door covered in moss and bark and knocked.

 It was answered by a surly looking bearded man, whose face broke into a smile at the sight of Holmes.

 “Holmes! You’re still alive! Come in, come in. What the hell are you doing here? Where have you been? How did you escape the city? We hadn’t heard from you these past two years!” He moved as if he would hug the other man, but a look from Holmes and the sight of the hawk on his arm, changed his mind.

 They were ushered into the house and lead to the back where another of the willowy creatures was sitting at a small kitchen table. The bearded man went up to it and whispered something. It stood and bowed and then quietly left through the back door.

 Holmes didn’t bother introducing the thief.  
  
The man served them fresh water, which Wiggins gulped down greedily and sat them down at the table and started speaking rapidly. “I knew you were still alive. I told Lestrade, but he didn’t believe me, but then we heard rumours. People said they spotted you. What the hell are you doing back here? You know the Watch would love to find you. Is John with you? We haven’t seen him since you left.”

 “In a manner of speaking, he’s with me. I’ve no time to go into details. Anderson, be quiet a minute and listen. I need to speak with Lestrade. I can’t approach him directly, but you can. Can you get word to him?”

 “Why yes, of course. But…”  
  
“The less you know the better. I can’t explain now, but some day. I can’t stay long. Tell Lestrade to meet me at noon, three days from now, near the old Vauxhall Arches. He’ll know where exactly.”

 “All right, but I don’t like it, Sherlock. He won’t like it, either. You are going to get caught and then what?”

Holmes just nodded at him and they left out the back door through the little garden. The woodwife was standing quietly in the corner, its face turned toward the sun. The two men ignored it, went through the little gate in the garden fence and made their way back toward the streets.

 They hadn’t gone far when Sherlock grabbed him by the arms and pulled him into the shadow of a nearby building. The thief opened his mouth to protest when Sherlock hissed in his ear. “Quiet!” The hawk ruffled his feathers irritably. They melted further in, down an alley and behind an old rusted skip. Just in time as a group of uniformed and armed men trooped by.

 Wiggins swore silently. And then started praying feverously, whispering inaudibly, “Lord, please, if you love me, do not let them find us.”

 “Hush!” The men marched by in ridged formation, staring straight ahead. When they had disappeared from sight there was a palpable feeling of relief. Holmes looked quickly up and down the alleyway. “This way.” He walked briskly in the opposite direction.

 They wandered for what seemed like hours. The day was rapidly disappearing. Holmes began to look for someplace to settle for the night. The shadows of the afternoon were getting longer and Holmes man kept glancing up at the sky as if trying to see the sun.

 Finally, he led them into an old abandon building. He settled the hawk on the banister of a set of crumbling stairs. He disappeared into the back of the building and returned almost right away.

 “There are two rooms back here that will do. One for you and one for me and the hawk.” He rummaged in the pack and handed Wiggins the package of food. “You take this and do not eat it all.” He paused, the silver eyes bore into the younger man’s. “My friend John will show up here tonight and he will be hungry. Make sure you save him some. And here,” he drew out a large flask. “Water. Also use it sparingly. I can get us more but it’s not always easy.”

 He turned abruptly, his coat billowed out behind and showed Wiggins where he could sleep for the night. There was a mouldering old chair in the room and little else. He eyed it askance and set his pack down on the floor. He turned to ask how Watson would know where they were, but the other man had closed the door and left. With a sigh, he sat in the chair. It wasn’t the most comfortable place but it was better than some.

 “Lord, I am sure you must have a reason for the things you do to me. I just wish you would think to fill me in now and then on what my purpose in all this is.” He rooted through the package of food, hunger made his stomach grumble, having not eaten since the morning. He carefully tallied up what was there and only took a small portion, some bread and cheese and an apple. He had lived on the streets long enough to know how to hoard food, despite what Holmes might think. He didn’t know what to do with Watson’s share. He stood and went to the door and opened it. He peered up and down the hall and went to the door of the other room. He knocked. The door was flung open.

 “What?”

 “Well I thought you’d likely see your friend before I would, so here’s his share for tonight.”

Holmes looked at him strangely and then took the food. He started to close the door, but before he did he said, “It would be best if you did not disturb me for the rest of the night.” And shut the door firmly in his face. With a shrug he turned and headed back to the little room. After eating his share and drinking some water, he curled up in the shabby chair, an old blanket from his pack pulled over him. He was asleep in minutes.

 Sometime later, in the middle of the night, he sat up straight, his heart pounding. An unearthly sound filled the night and pulled him out of his dreams. It came again. It was the sound of a wolf calling out to the dark, a voice both desolate and fierce, speaking of the dark, the moon and wind and loss. It reminded him of the wild cries of the hawk that had awakened him that morning.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Little bit of a shorter chapter:)
> 
> Thanks to mattie and JAL for looking it over once again:)

He sat on a throne. It wasn’t a real throne. It was a large, overstuffed chair that was steeped in comfort, but looked intimidating and really that was the whole point. Dark, rich, wine-coloured leather and brass studs, covered in fur from beasts that twenty years ago had been considered to be myth.

 He’d had his slaves pull several of the original thrones out from the displays and glass cases and storage when he had first taken over the former Tower of London. He had tried them, but they really hadn’t suited. Uncomfortable things. He had thought about moving into the Palace as well but he liked the idea of playing the feudal King, controlling his people from the old battlements, watching the waterways. Besides the Palace had burned to the ground shortly after he came to power, in one of the first attacks against the city by outside forces. The Tower, he had rechristened as Appledore, was at least defensible. So here he was. Seated and steeped in history. It seemed appropriate. He had always liked history. He had studied it and learned how to manoeuvere and manipulate from some of the greatest minds in the world.

 And he kept it all in his head. He knew the moves and countermoves. He knew the how and when and why the great kings had been defeated. He knew that an image and rumour were bigger influences than the truth and that the truth could be manipulated to sway the people. They had been ignorant fools when all he was doing in the old days was running a media empire. In this day and age they were even more ignorant, more scared of the dark and the beast. Looking for a leader who could control them and protect them and to make their decisions for them.

 And it was so easy.

 He had the reputation.

 He had the control.

 And he didn’t even have to lift a finger.

 That’s why one had subordinates.

 He looked over the rim of his glasses. There was a man who knew how to make them still, someone who had thought to stock up on the supplies that had been freely available during the days of confusion and looting, someone who had thought ahead. He used magic now to grind the lenses, but they were just as good as in the days before.

 He didn’t actually need glasses at all, but he felt they gave him a wise and benevolent look.

 For those times he felt it imperative he look wise and benevolent.

 Glasses were also a useful prop, to remove and study, to hold and caress. He gently placed them upon his face and looked carefully over the rims. He steepled his hands together and thought about the information he had received this morning.

 He had known they were back in the city. He had known for a while. But he had bided his time to see where they were going and what they had planned.

 He cleared his throat.

 “Mary,” he called softly, his voice reminiscent of the quiet slide of the snake in the shadow of a rock, one you walked by unaware.

 “Come here, Mary.”

 A small shadow detached from the wall nearest the door. He marveled once again at the way she glided toward him. If he hadn’t been paying attention or had been unaware she was there, he would have missed the small assassin as she crept toward him on the throne.

 “Come here. There you are. Good girl. I have a surprise for you.”

 Beautiful dark eyes looked up at him.

 “He’s come back to London, Mary. Would you like to have him back? Would you like to have him for your own again?”

 A tilt of the head.

 “Well then, how about I let you wander about the city? You find him. Find him and the other and you can have him. But,” and he wagged a finger at her. “But you must bring them back to me first. I want Holmes and you, you my pet, you can have your John again. For your very own. To do with as you wish.”

 Mary slinked forward and sat at his feet. He reached down and ran his fingers over her head and chucked her under her chin. He then grabbed the back of her neck, hard. A mewl of sound escaped from her mouth, but that was all. She knew better than show anything else. It would be so much worse.

 “And then Mary, you can punish him for leaving you. Won’t that be nice? And maybe if you’re a very good girl, I’ll give you Holmes, too. When I’m done with him. Now then, off you go.”

 Mary rose gracefully to her feet and turned to leave.

 “Oh and my dear? Happy hunting.”  
  
The serval opened her mouth and panted, tail lashing as she thought about tracking down her wayward husband.

 “You can come out too, my dear. I know you are there.” Another figure removed themselves from the shadows.

 “You must be tired after all of the hard work you’ve had to do for me today. Now come and sit here by my feet and tell me about your day. Hmmm? I hope you have good news for me.” He already knew what she had done and where she had been but he did so like to listen to the lilt of her voice.

 The pretty brunette sat as gracefully as the wild cat had and looked up at the man she served. “Of course I do, sir.”

 oOo

 Wiggins lay down and started to drift back to sleep when his eyes snapped back open. He heard the howl again, closer. It cut him to his heart, such a lonely, fearful sound.

 Although Holmes had told him not to disturb him, he thought he should check. He stood and made his way to the door, where he dithered. Then, squaring his shoulders, he pulled on the door.

 A figure stood in the hallway, his hand ready to knock upon the door just flung open. Wiggins let out a little shriek.

 It wasn’t Holmes. There was enough light from the moonlight shining through the windows in the hall to pick out blond and grey glints in the hair of Watson.

 Wiggins gaped at him.

 “What the hell is going on? Where did you come from and how did you find us?”

 The look of amusement and slight surprise crossed Watson's face.

 “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Sherlock told me you were here. I came to see how the wrist was.” A small look of shame lingered at the corners of his mouth and eyes. At least that’s what Wiggins told himself.

 “Yeah, it’s all right, I guess.” In fact it was beginning to ache a bit.

 Watson tilted his head and looked thoughtful. “Come with me.”

 They walked down to the other room and Wiggins watched as Watson bustled about, taking small packages out of the pack on the floor and adding something to an old tin camping mug. There was a small fire in the fireplace and a pot of water was steaming over it. With a scrap of cloth he poured the water from the pot into the mug and set them on the dusty floor. A quick rummage in the pack again produced a jar of something dark and runny, which was also added. He passed the whole thing to Wiggins and said, “Here, try this.”

 “What is it?” A suspicious look crossed Wiggins' face.

 “It’s willow bark tea. It’s one of the remedies from the ancient days that we used before analgesics.”

 “Oh?”

 “Ummm, yeah, doctors, healers now, I guess. Funny how we’ve reverted to some of the old names with the descent to the dark ages.” His tone was dry and slightly mocking. “Fortunately, there’s still a need for doctors of skill. Unfortunately anyone can set up a shop and hand out herbs and Fey medicine and call their selves a healer.”

 Wiggins sniffed at the mug of liquid and took a tentative sip. It was a bit bitter, but had been sweetened with something, probably whatever was in that jar. “Honey?” he asked, surprise replacing suspicion.

 He could just make out Watson’s smile. “Yes, Sherlock likes to keep bees, when we are…well when we aren’t in London.” The sorrow that hovered ever present was there again, but then it was replaced with a soft grin. “Come and sit with me for a bit. Tell me what you two where up to today. Sherlock didn’t leave much in his notes.”

 “Notes?”

 “Er, yes. We don’t really see each other much, to talk, so we leave notes. I didn’t get a chance to last night, so I hope he wasn’t too much of a prick when you spoke to him yesterday.”

 Wiggins was sorting the information that was coming in, in his head. He was coming to some rather odd conclusions, but was dismissing them out of hand as being too strange even for him.

 “So how do you find each other, then? If you’re not together and off on your own?”

 “Oh well, you know. Here, sit down here. I’ve managed to build up a nice fire. There was an old fireplace here and the chimney’s not too blocked. The air is nice enough tonight so we can leave the window open. I was rather surprised to see glass still intact, but trust Sherlock to find a place like this.”

 There was warmth and affection in his speech. He cared a great deal for the tall, dark man. But there were also secrets and hidden stories woven through the pitch of his voice as well. Something was itching at Wiggins. Something obvious that he couldn’t quite see.

 Watson looked into the fire, a mug of his own cradled in his hands. Wiggins continued to sip at his own drink. He mused on the fact Watson had not answered his question. He let it go for now.

 The howl came again this time right outside the window. Watson placed his mug on the floor and went to the open window.

 “You need to stop that now. You’re bothering our guest.” He then patted the ledge and a dark shape bounded through and landed at his feet. The wolf seemed even fiercer looking. Silver eyes peered at Wiggins and it huffed at him, but then he turned and ignored the thief. It looked up at Watson. Wiggins’ eyebrows shot up as he saw the wolf wag its tail through the dirt and debris on the floor and then sit, looking up expectantly at John.

 “Well I do have some food for you, git, but you could have found your own. You are much too lazy sometimes. You need to do your own hunting. Help to supplement what we have.” He sat and reached over to where he had left the food Wiggins had given Sherlock earlier. He tore the bread and cheese in half and gave it to the wolf. It took it from his hand, daintily and then wagged his tail for more. Watson laughed, a chuckle, and took the apple and cut it in half with a pocketknife out of the pack and held it out. “He likes apples.” He wasn’t really speaking to Wiggins. There was a level of fondness in his voice that was almost embarrassing, almost intimate, to hear. Like he was watching something private. He wondered if the two of them saw much of people in their day-to-day lives. He wondered if Holmes and the bird were the same. They all seemed terribly lonely and out of practice with simple conversation, as if they’d spent so much time alone they’d forgotten how. He wondered why Holmes and Watson just didn’t travel together more often, but he supposed one got use to the solitude, the quiet. And maybe they didn’t really get along.

 Watson sat upon the floor on a dark, oddly shaped blanket. The wolf yawned wide and long, its tongue curling up and then it shuffled down until it was laying beside Watson, its head on his lap. He lifted his hand and stroked through the fur. “You must be tired,” he said, softly. Wiggins must have grunted or something, because the other’ eyes were on him. “He doesn’t sleep much. Never has. Never did, not even before…” He stopped and turned his head looking down and away from Wiggins into the dark, lips pursed.

 “Before what?”

 Watson turned to look at him and said nothing for the longest time. His eyes glittered in the firelight. “You need to get yourself to bed and sleep. You’ve probably got some travelling to do tomorrow with Sherlock. Morning comes early.”

 Curious, but not wanting to push his luck, he stood and made his way back to the room he had been sleeping in. He thought about what he had learned and what he hadn’t from talking to Watson. It seemed there were more questions than answers. He tried to get comfortable in his chair. It wasn’t that it wasn’t comfortable. It was that something was bothering him.

 He was just beginning to drift off when he thought about what it was. It was little things, small details that others might not notice. The pack that John had been using was the same pack he had had the night he’d sprained his wrist. But it was also the same pack Sherlock had and the blanket he had been lying on wasn’t a blanket but Holmes’ greatcoat.

 “I am getting slow not to have noticed before. It’s all very strange. Lord, pardon me for saying, but what the hell is going on? And why must I be included in all of these oddities?” He sighed and curled up again and was soon asleep.

 oOo

 Outside of the flat Sherlock and John had lived in, a small hunting cat sat upon her haunches in the gloom of a side street and watched. There was no movement from the upper windows.

 Looking carefully around, she determined no one else was watching the area. She crossed the street, avoiding the light from the fairies. She hunted around the doorstep and sniffed, cautiously, carefully and beside the stronger odour of the woman who used to take care of them, she could detect traces of the two men she was searching for. Fresh scents. There was someone new as well, someone unfamiliar. She learned his scent and committed it to memory.

 Something caught her eye, something caught in a crack in the old pavement. She approached it. A feather. It screamed at her a name she hadn’t been able to speak for two years, ever since she had been turned into a serval as punishment for letting John escape with Sherlock.

 It was his, his feather. She sniffed the familiar and tantalizing scent of her former mate. Her tongue came out and gave it a lick. Saliva gathered in her mouth and a thrill shot through her. Her human voice and instincts warred with that of the cat’s but both seemed to say _Mine, mine, mine to have, mine to keep._

  _Mine to devour._


	5. The Hawk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for general 'hey you have a typo!' fixes and all around Britpickinesss:D

The weather had cooled considerably the past two nights. Frost was definitely in the air and had arrived with a bite and growl. The moon had a distinctive ring around it, a pale and fragile shell of ice crystals in the air. They were getting closer to the time of the year when snow arrived, gracefully falling from the sky in a hypnotic dance. The elegance of drifting snow would be belied by its cruel and tenacious grip. Rushing ahead of it, announcing its coming was the smell, sharp and metallic. London received more snow since the change. Wiggins remembered fondly when he had looked forward to snow. Not now. Things came into the city with the snow, creatures that liked the misery and cold and they weren’t the only ones to become hungry. Starvation was a real possibility for most who lived here.

 Mingled in the same frosty air were wisps of burning wood. It was Bonfire night. Even after the change, Londoners, and perhaps all of England, still took time on November the fifth and lit bonfires. Now not so much in remembrance of the almost lethal attempt on a king and the House of Lords but because it was the time of year the change had occurred. No one was sure if it had actually happened in November as things had changed gradually but it was close enough to the actual date that it was woven into the remembering. Now the lighting of bonfires was a tad darker. There were some who lit the fires as a reminder that many had died in the years following and that they were now living in a second Dark Age. There were some out tonight who didn’t appreciate the wonders that had replaced a modern and technological society. A cult of the past had sprung up and this night was theirs as much as anyone else’s. To some, ritual and sacrifice were tied up into the burning of wood and effigies were replaced by something more sinister.

 After two days of travelling by day, this time the small group was travelling at night. Normally they holed up and rested, but if something had happened to change the routine, Wiggins didn’t know what it was. Not the best time to change routine. Maybe Holmes, who had been stopping along the way to speak to various personages, human or not, had taken far longer to reach the vicinity of the Vauxhall Arches. Maybe Watson wanted to travel for a change. Loss of time would be his first guess, London was a big place and it was hard to get around quickly but they hadn’t been so far that it should take three days to get there. Granted they weren’t to meet this Lestrade person until the third day, but still Wiggins wasn’t sure they were going to get there on time.

 The two men moved swiftly and carefully, stayed to darkened streets and checked behind them now and then. Tagging along after Watson, who walked with a determined military stride, these thoughts and more were ricocheting around Wiggins’ head. Thoughts about whom and what Holmes and Watson really were had been tangling his brain for the last few days. Should what he believed, what he thought to be true, be broached? He was having a massive internal debate with God about it, but God wasn’t responding. He had lots of time to think these last few days. He had watched the two men closely and separately; different they were, as different as shade and sun, but connected like the two. There was a certain way they had of looking for the other that was unmistakable, even though Wiggins had not once seen the human version together in the same room.

 The human version. There was the rub.

 He thoroughly believed that the two men were under a spell of enchantment. That’s the way his father would have said it when he read bedtime stories. ‘The princess was under a spell of enchantment. The forest was under a spell of enchantment. A dark spell of enchantment permeated the castle.’ How else to explain the sudden disappearances of one or the other? Holmes was only around in the light and Watson the dark. The wolf and the bird vanished and were also never together. There was only one conclusion to be made and as farfetched as it might seem the two men were more than connected to the two animals, they were the two animals. Holmes was the dark furred, proud wolf who had the same eyes and huffy manner and Watson was the fierce hawk.

 After about five streets and the third audible sigh, Watson turned and looked at Wiggins.

 “What is the matter? You’ve been shooting me funny looks and huffing loudly.”

 Wiggins gulped, shook his head and walked past where Watson was standing.

 “Nothing,” he muttered.

 It was Watson’s turn to exhale. He also shook his head and then walked hurriedly to catch up with the other man. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but not quite how to start the conversation. Finally after a few more steps he said, “I told Sherlock you’d figure it out. You can’t wander around following someone without putting two and two together.” He placed a hand on Wiggins’ arm. “You know, right? It’s okay. It’s not actually a secret. It’s just not loudly proclaimed and we just don’t go around telling everyone.”

 “Telling everyone what?” Wiggins wasn’t sure if he really wanted confirmation. It seemed like something private between the two men and something chilling. They must have seriously pissed someone off to be cursed like this. He figured it must be a curse. It probably was a curse. And he was fairly certain he knew who had done the deed, who had uttered the words or called on dark powers to cause it to happen. He paused and turned to Watson. “Look, I don’t want to know. I think what I think and I keep it buried deep inside. If you tell me, if it’s true, I will be afraid and I already am scared about this mad quest or thing you two are on. So don’t tell me. I like the dark and not knowing. It keeps things covered and safe.”

 Watson looked at him strangely, intently. “But nothing grows in the dark. You can’t see your way and you stumble around. Perhaps you cause injury to yourself or to someone else if you don’t know the truth.”

 “Works for me, so let’s leave it at that. I’m not saying I don’t want to ever know what the hell this is all about. Just, just not right now, okay? I’m not a brave person and things like this give me the willies.”

 A slow, sharp nod and Watson turned and continued walking. Wiggins noticed he was clenching his fists. Maybe he wanted to unburden his soul but Wiggins wasn’t ready to carry that weight just yet.

 A furry shape bounded up to Watson as they rounded a corner and Wiggins let out a rather piercing shriek. Watson shushed him and let the wolf place paws on his shoulders and give Watson’s face a quick lick. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth and his head titled to the side was comical. Watson broke out into a real laugh, a pure joy at the antics of the creature.

 “What is it? Did you find something?”

The wolf got down and tilted his head toward his friend and huffed deeply. He then turned and trotted off around the corner.

 The two men followed behind, Wiggins curious as to what this was all about.

 “He sometimes finds things he wants me to see. Whatever it is has him excited. That doesn’t usually happen. He’s fairly serious.”

 Nodding like he understood, Wiggins followed.

 The wolf led them to an alleyway about halfway down the street. They saw the end of his tail disappear. Pausing to think a minute, Watson dropped the pack onto the ground and rummaged around. He pulled out a gun.

 “Wow!” breathed Wiggins. “I didn’t know they still had those. I thought the magic made them harder to use! Where did you get it?”

 Watson looked at him and frowned. “If I told you, you might not want to come with us, so let’s leave it be for now shall we?”

 A shrug and the two men continued their journey into the alley.

 The wolf could just be seen in the gloom, the light from the fairies not quite reaching where it stood.

 Watson crouched down where the wolf was waiting.

 “It’s a brownie,” he said “It’s hurt.” The wolf wagged its tail like he had done something marvellous and John gave him an absent pat as he reached into his pack for his med kit. It was the most dog-like Wiggins had ever seen the animal

 He placed a soft piece of cloth on the ground and transferred the brownie to it. He next took out a candle and some matches and lit it, letting wax drip onto the ground. The candle was jammed into the soft wax puddle upon the ground and he held it there until it stood. He bent over the brownie. “Hmmm. Unusual to see one out and about at night. What happened? It’s all scratched and cut up.” He spoke to it in quiet, calm tones, letting the brownie know he wasn’t going to hurt it. The wolf leaned over and gave a sniff and then turned his head and appeared disinterested now that Watson was taking care of it. He lay down at Watson’s side, his head on his paws and closed his eyes, bored now the excitement was past.

 A bottle of water came out of the pack next and another cloth. Watson carefully washed the brownie’s wounds. He next rummaged around and produced a small bag. A faint glow emanated from it. Wiggins’ eyebrows shot up.

 “Hey! That’s fairy dust! You carry that around?”

 “Yes, but it’s purer than the crap you’ve taken. It would kill a human in this form. I use it on magical creatures when we find them.”

 “Why? Why not just leave them? They ain’t human or nothin’. You know, it’s like nature and stuff.”

 Watson sat back on his heels and looked stonily at the younger man. “I am a doctor. I help those in need. Don’t you dare suggest I leave this poor brownie to suffer when I can help him. And it shouldn’t matter whether it’s human or not.” His face softened slightly and his voice lost some of the stern edge. “Beside, helping the fair folk comes in handy. They are very grateful and treat you well if you do the same. That’s why he,” indicating the wolf, “brought me here. Otherwise he probably wouldn’t care much. He knows I do, though.”

 Properly chastised Wiggins kept quiet and watched the doctor work. It was sort of fascinating to see what Watson was doing. After the injuries were cleaned, a few grains of dust were placed in a small cup of water and administered to the brownie. It became more alert and less pained looking as it spoke to Watson, its overly large bright eyes never leaving the man’s face. It shook its head and then whispered something to him.

 Watson’s face changed from polite interest to puzzlement and then to concern. He gently placed the brownie back on the ground and quickly repacked the bag. The brownie, injuries healed by the dust, scurried off down the alley and disappeared. The wolf picked up some of the anxiety that was rolling off of Watson and stood suddenly, facing the entrance to the alley. A growl, hackles raised, he took a step forward.

 Watson grabbed the wolf by the scruff. “No! Get back.”

 Wiggins not sure what the hell was going on asked. “What is it?”

 “It’s a trap.”

 Just as the words flew out of his mouth, Wiggins felt a sharp sting on his neck. He lifted his hand and pulled out a barbed dart.

 Puzzled thoughts followed him down to the ground as he collapsed and darkness over took him.

 oOo

 Something wet was touching his ear, cold and wet and it made a snuffing noise. It was bringing him out of a most delicious dream.

 “No, I don’t want to get up.” He rolled over and hunched down into his coat. He didn’t even have time to complete the move, as something grabbed onto his coat and shook. A low, snarling sound landed in his ear. He batted a hand at it and felt warm fur. Something clicked slowly in his brain.

 He turned back over and squinted. There was bright light coming from somewhere above him and it hurt his eyes. A furry shape was huffing warm, meaty breath in his face. If a wolf could glare and look impatient at the same time, this one surely could.

 “Oy! Stop! I’m awake.” He sat up, a little too abruptly, his head pounded. “What the hell happened?” Now that he had Wiggins’ attention, the wolf pawed at him some more and whined, sat upon his haunches and stared at Wiggins, as if those silver eyes could force him to move.

 Somehow he had been dragged out under a street lamp, the fairies were gathered in one spot, tapping on the glass with their little fists and trying to get his attention. He could just make out their high, squeaky voices on the edge of his hearing, as they demanded to be released from their prison. Scrapped and bruised, he wondered if it would hurt more in the morning. A quick glance around for Watson, but he was nowhere to be seen.

 “Where is he?” he asked the wolf. “Oh yeah, sure, I’m left with the one who can’t communicate.” He got up to his feet shakily and looked around some more. The pack the doctor always carried was on the ground at his feet as well as his own. They looked a bit wet and muddy. The wolf must have dragged them out as well.

 “What’s going on, Wolf?” He refused to say the name that floated on his lips. “Where’s Watson?”

 The wolf whined again and began trotting away from the thief. He stopped and turned and flicked an ear at him because Wiggins hadn’t moved. An irritated huff crossed the wolf’s face as if he couldn’t believe how stupid the thief was.

 “Oh, fuck,” he muttered. “Sorry Lord, but sometimes there comes a time and a place for swearing and this, this is just one of those times. I have no idea what is going on. I assume you do.”

 He reached down, picked up the packs and hurried after the wolf. They jogged along for a long time; the wolf every now and then sniffed the ground and took them in an unexpected direction. Abruptly he stopped, panted and growled. Then he shot off into the dark without even a glimpse at Wiggins. Tearing off after the animal, he tried his best to keep up with it. Afraid he had lost him in the dark, he jumped when he appeared out of nowhere, huffed at him and dashed away. Led to a small patch of greenery, the formal, tended parks of the old days now encroached and swallowed up pieces of the city. Not far from where they had been assaulted, he stared at the sight before him. In the middle of the park, a crowd had gathered, all standing around an unlit bonfire. Faint cheers and catcalls could be heard.

 The wolf raced into the crowd and Wiggins followed, elbowing aside people as he passed. They reached the edge of the circle, which was far back from the pile of wood. A man was approaching the mound carrying a flaming torch, which he threw in. The torch flew gracefully through the air, leaving a glowing trail against his eyes and landed with a thud. The wood, a bit damp from the weather, smouldered and didn’t catch right away, but after a few minutes, it began to burn.

 As the flames grew, Wiggins could hear faint cries coming from under the wood. “Oh, dear Lord, no!” The wolf sprang forward and without hesitation darted in under the wood, Wiggins closely behind. The wolf crouched low and with a twist of his head, latched onto a leg just seen under the pile. Sparks and embers were falling around them and landed upon fur and material with equal glee. The heat and smoke were increasing and it wouldn’t take long before it would be too hot to get the man out. Wiggins reached past the wolf’s head and grabbed the other leg of John Watson, ignoring the kiss and sting of greedy flames searing his hands. Together, the two of them pulled him safely from the fire. There was a feeble turn of his head and some weak coughing and Watson lay still.

 The crowd gathered around was muttering angrily. Wiggins looked up and saw they were getting closer. One man stepped forward, the man who had tossed the torch. “You dare interrupt us? Do you realize that this…this _thing_ is an abomination! He is cursed and must be put to death.”

 Wiggins stood, hands out in a placating gesture and with a shaky voice tried, to calm the man.

 “He didn’t choose this, it chose him. Would you punish someone who had a curse thrust upon him? That would be like punishing someone for being born blind or who lost a leg in an accident. He can’t control it!”

 “He is evil and tainted by malevolent powers. He must die. And you shall join him.”

 The crowd surged forward but was abruptly stopped by sudden movement as a group of smallish creatures scrambled through the crowd and clambered over the man on the ground. Wiggins watched as they stood over and around the still form, small, sharp teeth barred.

 “Brownies! Well I never. Lord, you move mysteriously.””

 Standing in front of the brownies Wiggins and Watson, the wolf growled softly and showed his teeth as he paced forward, the sounds coming from his throat letting all know he’d rip out theirs if they came close.

 The people on the fringe of the crowd started slipping away and even their leader was giving the growing crowd of brownies a cautious look. Soon it wasn’t just brownies, other fair folk joined in, leprechauns, wights, fairies, small silvery creatures Wiggins had never seen before. Larger creatures were joining in until there were as many, if not more, than the humans.

 The crowd was dispersing rapidly and soon only the leader and a few of his followers were left. Wiggins took a step forward as did the wolf and the remaining humans were gone, but with glances over their shoulders as they hurried off into the darkness.

 There was tug on the hem of his trousers and Wiggins looked down to see a smallish creature at his ankle. It was the brownie Watson had saved. At least he thought so. They all looked rather alike.

 He crouched down. “Thank you, little one.” He thought a moment, remembered what Watson had said and turned, put his hand in the pack and pulled out an apple, giving it to the brownie. The brownie looked at him and then took the apple. He dashed off. Wiggins noticed that the fair folk had all disappeared as well.

 “That was different,” he said, surprised at how calm he felt.

 He moved to look at the unconscious figure on the ground. The wolf was licking Watson’s face, he was moving slowly and lifted a hand to bat him away. Then stopped and reached up and patted the wolf, wearily. “It’s okay Sherlock, I’m okay.”

 And there it was, out in the open, the undisclosed, furtive idea that was not really a secret. Watson slowly sat up with the help of Wiggins and Sherlock. He rubbed his hand over his face, scratches, cuts and small burns peppered the skin.

 “What happened? I feel drugged. What was this all about?”

 “I think they were sacrificing you in their annual bonfire exorcism. They are extremists and don’t like anything not human, anything magical. They pick something every year and burn it, hoping to purge the word of magic. It’s a sin, I guess. You just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

 Still a little foggy from the drugs, he looked at Wiggins bemusedly. “You seem to know a lot about it,” he said quietly, no accusation in his voice.

 Wiggins blushed and looked down at the ground. “When I was young, after I lost my parents and my sister, I lived with them for time. They aren’t bad folks, mostly. Just scared of what they don’t understand. I, umm, never stopped them, though. I saw a few burnings. It mostly turned my stomach and I left after a time. I never did go back. I kind of forgot in all the excitement what night it was or I would have suggested we not stick around.”

 Watson looked down at his hands and then back to Wiggins. “We’ve all done things, Bill, things we regret or shouldn’t have done. We’ve all stood by and let things happen that shouldn’t have happened. The world changed and some of us weren’t ready to change with it and it made some of our choices not so nice. But you stood up tonight and did the right thing. Past is past. We can only move forward.” He glanced down at the wolf that was sitting at his feet, looking up at him and panting. He smiled a sad smile. Then a puzzled look crossed his face.

 “Although, how did they know what I was and why did they just take me?”

 “Don’t know about the first but they only take one each year and the wolf would have been tricky. A human, a cursed human would have more impact in their minds. I don’t know,” a nod to the wolf, “if he was drugged or not. He woke me up.”

 Watson started to say something but paused and turned toward the east so quickly it startled Sherlock.

 A glance at the face of the man in the light from the still burning fire, revealed a look of grim acceptance. Sherlock stood, his body leaned against Watson, head on level with the man and his tail, down. Silver eyes flicked back and forth between the beloved face and the threatening sky. A low whine was building in his chest.

 Softly, “we lost track of time.” Wiggins looked in the same direction. He could see a noticeable difference in the sky; a faint cold yellow was brushing the sky in between the crumbling buildings, in the crepuscular light.

 The sun was rising, quickly.

 Watson looked around but there didn’t seem to be anywhere for them to go, nowhere that was safe.

 He looked at Wiggins, “I’m sorry, I can’t leave. I guess since you’ve figured this part out, I’m about to change, become the hawk. You, um, might want to go over there and wait. It isn’t pretty.”

 Wiggins didn’t know quite what to say. He felt helpless in the face of what the two were about to go through, but he didn’t want to leave, not because of some weird voyeuristic need to watch but because he figured they would be vulnerable during the transformation. He steeled himself and said, “No. You need watching. No telling if they’re still out there waiting.”

 Watson looked down again. His hands clenched with a slight tremble and he nodded sharply. “Not many have seen this. It’s umm, it’s rather private. Sorry.”

 “I’ll be watching the area. Not you lot.”

 A look of exasperated disbelief on his face, Watson smiled slightly and swiftly removed his shoes and trousers. His jacket, sweater and shirt followed. Wiggins could see all of this out of the corner of his eye as he tried to avoid watching the proceedings. Faintly he could see Watson as he knelt down by the wolf and pull him close, his hands gripped in his fur and he whispered to him.

 The first rays of light began to crest the buildings and one small, shining beam fell on the top of Watson’s head. A shift and Watson glanced up, faced the direction of the sun and stood, pulled to his feet by the allure of the light. A shudder rippled through his body, almost like waves in a pond as he raised his arms in supplication and acceptance, a glowing Vitruvian man. Wiggins gave up pretense and despite his best intentions, watched. He couldn’t help himself; he had to, was drawn in. The beam widened as the sun came up, the earth rolled to meet her. It fell across the wolf, the light increased, making it was harder to see the shapes of the two, but it wasn't just the beams from the sun, the two figures glowed with an inner light as well. It expanded and draped them, a glowing cloak, wrapped them, caressed them. The image of a spectral bird painted over Watson, stretched to meet his frame and then pulled itself into his body, ghostly feathers drifting down from his outstretched arms. Crouched at his side, the wolf looked up at the man, his ears laid back. Watson’s head went back and a cry tore out of his throat, agonized and long, heart rendering. The wolf sat up on his haunches and howled, the two voices mingled, blended, belonged. The brightness increased and Watson’s body shrank into itself. A hand lifted to block the sun, Wiggins blinked from the glare and something else, tears. He wiped his eyes, emotions crashed on to him as the implications of what these two went through twice a day tumbled upon him. Watson was right, it wasn’t pretty, it was full of heartbreaking beauty and sorrow. Unable to stop, his mouth open, tears streamed down his face, he saw the wolf’s shape stretch and elongate, the hair drawing back into his body, except on the top were it stayed black and became curly. The body of John Watson disappeared like smoke or a dream and in its place a hawk sat on the ground, blinked at the light, confused by the sudden change. Holmes, who lay naked on the grass, had transformed as well, but with just enough time, just enough awareness to see the last of Watson’s humanity leave.

  _No_ thought Wiggins, as Holmes reached out a hand toward the bird, an urgent, desperate move, as he tried to touch, tried to bring Watson to him. Startled, the wild once more thrummed through his veins, the bird took flight, fast. Head down, Holmes slammed his fist into the ground and then looked up into the sky after the bird and a cry tore out of his throat, a plea to break hearts,

 “John!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. The Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was not an easy chapter:P I had to rewrite it twice but here you go:) I hope you enjoy it!  
> Thanks to johnsarmylady and mattsloved1 for being awesome and Brit picking and editing for me – I miss so much! You ladies are lovely to put up with me:) 
> 
> Don’t own –wish I did.

In the few minutes after the silence, it was then the lack of sound was the most oppressive. The cry of a beloved name still pulsed in the air and Wiggins did not know where to look or what to do. A feeling of utter shit helplessness permeated his skin, absorbed into his bloodstream and he felt the weight of it, the horror of it. To imagine, to grasp what anyone had done to deserve such a curse was beyond him. It was beautifully tragic and awful in its scope. The two men came in such close contact for brief milliseconds, enough to see, to know the humanity and the animal side of each other, to reach out and to have it slip past, like seizing wind or taming rain. The saddest, the most terrible thought was that they could almost touch, almost brush fingers, tip to tip, a reassurance, a gesture, to say they were still there. It never happened. It was that _almost,_ that slip of fabric in the space between those outstretched fingers, which was the worst part of this curse, in Wiggins’ mind.

 Refusing to look at him, Holmes simply put on his clothes and carefully, reverently, picked up John’s, folded them and put them away. He slowly shouldered the pack and then marched past Wiggins and continued on their journey, silent and terrible in his grief and his unwillingness or inability to express it. With a sigh, the thief picked up his pack and followed after.

 Doing his best to ignore the looks Holmes threw up to the sky, Wiggins continued a silent, or mostly silent, discourse with God, asking Him to bestow a touch more patience upon him. He watched as posh attired shoulders hunched down further every time Holmes looked up to see that except for a few stray clouds, the sky was empty. The dark looks and brooding were getting to be a bit much for even Wiggins.

 He stopped in the middle of the pavement, set his pack down, crossed his arms and waited. He didn’t have to pause for long.

 Holmes slowed and spun around, glowered at him, turned back, took a few more steps forward, and then swung around abruptly and stormed up to Wiggins.

 “What do you think you are doing? We have to get to Lestrade by noon. He won’t wait, he can’t afford to. Move it.”

 “Nope”

 “ _Nope_? Nope? What do you meant _nope_?” his tone was scathing.

 “I mean, I am not moving until you take a breath and realise you haven’t lost him.”

 Some sputtering came out of Holmes mouth, some denials and enraged words, but finally he looked at Wiggins with narrow eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 “Of course you do. You keep looking up at the sky, demanding answers from it. It ain’t gonna talk to you.” He lowered his voice. “He’ll be back. He loves you.”

 A cold and steely mask fitted over Sherlock’s face. Wiggins felt a momentary quiver and decided he would not want to get this man truly angry.

 “Explain yourself.”

 “Well I’ve heard him talk about you. He loves you. He don’t come out and say it, but he gets this look, in his eyes and the set of his mouth, like you’re the sun and the fucking moon. He glows, see. He ain’t leaving you. Look, he’s just frightened. Last night, that was scary.” Holmes frowned at him, as if to say Watson afraid of anything was ridiculous. “Okay, maybe not him as people, but when the sun comes up, he’s got to change, quick. You lot ain’t prepared or indoors like you usually are. When was the last time he had to change outside? All that big open space and he’s all confused. You get confused, right? When you’re settling in to yourselves? Here he is, all his hawk instincts flooding his systems and he has to get away, has to fly, but I’m betting, ‘cause you’re tied together, that once he settles, he’ll be back.” His hand started to come up as if he was going to place it on Holmes’ shoulder, like he would with a mate, but then he changed his mind. Holmes was no friend, not yet anyway.

 As he was speaking, he could almost see Holmes’ nerves settle. If he had been the wolf, the fur on his back would have been raised and his teeth barred, but it was not unlike gentling a stray. He said his piece in an even, quiet tone and it seemed to register in the animal part of the other man’s brain.

 “Look, you’re all worked up, too. Take a minute. We’re almost there. Pull it together and then we’ll go.” He paused while he worked out how to say his next bit. “You two, you’re meant to be together. It’s like in the stories, yeah? Even me, I can sense it. When you’re with each other and ain’t human, there’s this, I don’t know, this thing between you. I can almost see it, like a real thing, a whatcha call it, a manifestation. He loves you.”

 Sherlock didn’t look much different. His feelings were still buried deep, but there was a softening around the eyes and an expression of something other than fear in them. The tight, hunted look was gone. He nodded abruptly, took a deep breath and left. Wiggins rolled his eyes. _Lord, shoot me now. I didn’t sign up to be a marriage councilor._

As he walked away, Holmes looked over his shoulder and shouted out, “Do come along. And your grammar is atrocious. We really should work on that.”

 “Arse,” Wiggins muttered under his breath.

 They had only walked for a while when Wiggins kept feeling the need to glance about. Something left the impression spiders were crawling up the back of his neck, like he was being watched or followed but he couldn’t see anything, so he shrugged it off and continued.

 As he caught up to him, Holmes glanced at him quickly and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Behind and to your left.” Wiggins raised an eyebrow.

 “We are being followed. You sensed it. You’ve been looking back every few steps. Stop doing that for a bit and then when I tell you, stop, pretend to tie your laces and look back through the crook of your arm. You should see her.”  
“Her?”

 “No questions out in the open. Just do it,” Holmes hissed.

 A few more strides and Holmes whispered for Wiggins to go ahead. He dropped to one knee and made as if he was retying his lace. As he did so he managed to look back. It took a minute, but there in the shadows of a tall building was what at first glance looked to be an ordinary cat, but then he noticed the unusually long legs. It had been hard to see at first because of the spotted markings, blended in with sunlight and shadow, its fur reminiscent of pictures he remembered from when he was a kid, wild cats like leopards and cheetahs.

 He stood and they started walking again as if nothing happened. Wiggins made motions to ask, but Holmes shook his head and silenced him. When they were near an alley, they ducked into the shadows.

 “She’s been following us for a while now, probably since yesterday.”

 “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you point her out? Who is she?”

 “I was waiting to confirm her identity, but really there aren’t very many servals in England. Too cold”

 “Servals?”

 “Small African hunting cat. Can leap incredibly high, very sensitive hearing.” He paused, significantly. “Likes to eat birds.”

 “So, do you know her? Is she after, you know, the hawk?”

 “John? Yes. For God’s sake, you can call us by our first names, you know.” He scowled at Wiggins, who shrugged. “As to her identity, she’s John’s wife.”

 Feeling his mouth begin to gape open, Wiggins concentrated on keeping it closed whilst he processed that bit of information. “His wife? You know at one time I might have found that he’s a bird and she’s a cat to be a bit strange. Not so much anymore. But his wife? You two,” he waved his hand around. “You belong! How the hell…?”

 “Now is not the time or place. I am sure if you are patient, you will find the answers to your questions. But,” and he stepped up right into Wiggins’ space “Do not ask John. Tell him she is here, yes. He needs to know that, but do not ask him.” Before Wiggins could say anything they were off again.

 Shortly after this interlude, they weren’t far from where they needed to meet Lestrade. Wiggins was wondering how much longer when, even before Holmes could sense it, they were surrounded by a small group of men and women. Their leader was a petite, pretty woman, with dark curly hair.

 “Ah, Donovan. Still following Lestrade’s orders, I see. How nice for you,” Holmes smirked, covering up his annoyance at being caught off guard.

 “Holmes. Still being an irritating twat and psychopath.” She looked Wiggins up and down, coolly. “Collecting strays again, are we? Seems to be a habit.”

 Holmes’ smile stretched, jovial, but his eyes were cold.

 “Take me to Lestrade.”

 “I’ve got orders, see. Lestrade doesn’t trust you as much as you’d like to think he does. Especially since he thought you were dead.”

 “The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Besides he might have told you I was dead, but he knew I wasn’t. Shame he doesn’t trust _you_ as much as you’d like to think, isn’t it?”

 As she opened her mouth to say something in retaliation, Wiggins shouted, “Oy! Can we do this pissing contest another time?” Sometimes he felt like he was the adult in this relationship.

 At that moment there was a cry from above and a shape hurled itself out of the sky. At the last moment, Holmes held out his arm and the hawk landed there, feathers ruffled, his beak clacking in agitation. Everyone else was watching the hawk, some with fear, but Wiggins was watching Holmes. He looked relieved and pleased, but just for a second. His face became the mask once more. He quickly hooded the hawk, which became more settled once it was in place

 Donovan scowled at the hawk and left. They had no choice, except to follow, surrounded on all sides by Lestrade’s people. They were quickly led to an old tube station. Glancing around, scanning the terrain, the team moved them into concealment.

 A question, which had been bubbling in his head for a while, popped up and out of his mouth before he could stop it.

 “So who is this Lestrade fellow, anyway. His people look like he knows what’s what. And how come I ain’t heard of him?”

 A stern look was shoved at him from one of the guards, but it didn’t prevent Holmes from talking. Not much would.

 “He used to be the head of the Watch, before Magnussen took over. He was ousted and a new commander took his place.” Wiggins noticed hesitancy in Holmes, as if he were being careful what he said. Surrounded by this lot, he guessed he would have to be. He kept his mouth shut. Holmes didn’t tell him much of anything usually and this was a rare opportunity. “Half his men followed him when he left and he took them into the underground and set up his own little city. He is mostly a good sort, if you are on his side, if you haven’t done something wrong. He protects people. He worked for the police before the change. As to why you don’t know him, I couldn’t say, but I am willing to wager that he knows of you.”

 Wiggins, harrumphed, but kept silent. Led through the abandoned tunnels for quite a way, he quickly lost where they were. He was much more comfortable and self-assured above ground and disliked these dark, twisting tunnels. Despite the fact the guards carried small fairy lights, the encroaching edges of blackness were thick and fierce looking, as if one could step in them and disappear.

 After what seemed to be hours, they came to a small junction. Unlike the rest of the tunnels, which had belonged to the older era and therefore cut out by machines, this one was carved by manpower, chisel and hammer. The sides were rougher and shored up in places with timbers and mismatched brickwork. At the end of this tunnel was a heavily guarded door. Donovan approached and whispered to the head guard. She nodded and let them in, eyes staring warily at the two men and the hawk as they passed.

 On the other side was a surprise. A large cavern was revealed. It looked more like it was from the past, with elements of the present intertwined throughout. Wiggins wondered briefly how it had come to be, but was too awestruck by the sights. There were small structures, dwelling and stores, like stalls in a market, set up. People, most human, some not, wan looking from lack of sun, watched them pass with large eyes filled with fear. Wiggins guessed these were fugitives from the upper world, here under Lestrade’s protection. He wondered if the Mage even knew they existed. Probably, but it must suit his purposes to ignore them. He feared for the day when that blind eye opened upon these people and decided to acknowledge their presence.

 Led to a small wooden structure, with a gruff, “wait here”, Donovan went in and returned shortly. She sneered at Holmes.

 “You can go in, but the hawk and that,” a nod at Wiggins, “stay here.”

 Holmes’ eyes narrowed, but he turned to Wiggins and said, “Hold out your arm.” He pulled a thick piece of cloth from the pack, wrapped it around Wiggins’ arm and transferred the hawk. The bird flapped his wings a bit and then settled again, as Wiggins stroked its back and whispered hush at him. An eyebrow quirked in his direction and Holmes, with a flourish, turned and went inside.

 Donovan stayed out and kept an eye on the pair.

 Not knowing what else to do, Wiggins tried to chat with the taciturn woman, “So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” His question was met with a stony glare.

 Wiggins shrugged. _So much for that, Lord. Works on the street._

 “Why couldn’t the hawk go in with Holmes? I don’t think he liked that much, but didn’t seem surprised.”

 “You talk too much.”

 A shrug. “Not really, just curious.”

 Donovan sighed, as she realised she might as well answer something in order to get him to shut up. “The boss doesn’t trust him.’’

 Wiggins’ eyebrows went up in surprise. “Doesn’t trust a hawk? Is he afraid the bird’s gonna attack him?”

 Another angry scowl. “I shouldn’t be talking about this.”

 “Yeah, but we got nothing else to do. Come on, you know you want to spill.”

 A heavy sigh. “Oh very well. You must know that’s no ordinary bird, not if you are traipsing around with the all-knowing-great-pain-in-the-arse. He’s John Watson, right?”

 Wiggins nodded cautiously in agreement, not entirely comfortable with this conversation now that they were actually having it.

 “Well, he…”

 “Donovan!” barked a stern voice behind her. She jumped, coloured a bit and turned to the man standing there. A rough looking, but handsome, grey haired man stood at attention behind her. He glanced sourly at Wiggins and more so at the hawk. “Not really your business to be gossiping, is it?” His tone was soft, but not his demeanour. Donovan shook her head and said, “No, sir.”

 He turned to Wiggins, “You might as well come in, you and that dratted bird. Holmes has explained your role in all of this. And yes, I have heard of you. Keep your hands where I can see them and no stealing whist you’re in my territory. Got it?” He turned abruptly and went back inside. Donovan nodded her head after, “You best get going.”

 Wiggins followed the gruff man inside. A small but comfortable living space was revealed, with a neat, military feel to it.

 “All right, Holmes. Tell me what it is you want and why I shouldn’t turn you over to the Mage.” Lestrade’s mouth was turned down at the corners. There was a weariness about him, but he was straight backed and proud.

 Holmes hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “What if I told you I could defeat the Mage?”

 A bark of laughter came from Lestrade. “You must be joking. Why would I believe you? You, who walked off with that,” a nod and a scowl in Wiggins’ direction. He didn’t think he was talking about him.

 “John was just as much a dupe in the beginning, as we all were. Magnussen looked promising to so many. No one knew at the time he had great powers and was hell bent on taking over the city. Don’t blame John for that.” The words that came out of Holmes had a sharp edge to them. He would not hear of Watson being maligned.

  _Interesting_ , thought Wiggins.

 Lestrade scowled darkly, “You expect me to believe that. When _he_ took over, he kicked me out and put John in my place. Bah, you’ve gone soft. Should have known when you ran off with him. What were you thinking?”

 Wiggins tried to make himself small. He didn’t like the turn of conversation and his mind was whirling. It felt hard to breath. John Watson, kind, commanding, stern, angry, tough John Watson, a man to admire, someone Wiggins was learning he would follow gladly, had worked for the Mage who Wiggins would gladly kill. He wondered if he was going to be sick.

 “Sit down before you throw up,” Holmes said to him, not unkindly. “I know this might be a bit of a shock, but I can’t explain right now. Soon, I promise.” Wiggins was going to argue but he saw something in Holmes’ eyes he hadn’t really seen before. Pleading for understanding, Holmes looked at him with equal measure of compassion and trepidation.

 “All right, but you had better explain and it had better be good.” He sat on a nearby chair, looking at the hawk as if he didn’t recognize it any more.

 He missed some of the conversation about him, as his thoughts whirled around, old thoughts and memories intruded, his golden haired sister, laughing and trying to get him to play outside with her, teaching him to ride a bike. Lost in memories bright and painful he missed most of the conversation around him.

 Startled to hear his name, he came back to the present.

 “…Wiggins is the only person who can get in there. I need you to create a distraction so he can sneak me in. Once I’m in there, I will do what should have been done a long time ago.”

 “And what’s that?” said with a tired sigh and a good deal of scepticism.

 “Kill Magnussen.”

 Grimness fell upon the room.

 “Are you nuts? No one can kill a Mage. Not anyone human that is.”

 “You forget, Lestrade. I’m no longer human.”

 “But if you kill him, what happens to you and John? You’re going to live like this for the rest of your days, always together, never able to be with one another? That doesn’t seem to be like you. I wouldn’t think you nor John could live like that.”

 Holmes said nothing, but his eyes glittered strangely.

 “Oh, for Christ sake. You’re going on a suicide mission. You are nuts. Does John know?”

 “Yes”

 “And he’s all right with this?”

 Since Wiggins had met Holmes he had never seen him emotional except for the few minutes that morning when he had cried John’s name to the harsh, unforgiving light. Stern and cold, he held himself up to high ideals of intellect. Now he looked like a man at wit’s end, someone who was far more broken than he had suspected. Holmes’ gaze fell to the ground and then he whispered fiercely. “We _can’t_ live like this, Lestrade. No one could. You have no idea what it is like to see him, every dawn and dusk and not be able…” he broke off and pulled his shattered self back together under the armour of his intelligence. “Enough. Answer me, please. Will you help me?”

 Lestrade stood there, indecision in his face as plain as anything and then a softening. “All right, fine. God help me, I can’t leave you like this. Can’t even leave him like this as much as I’d like to.” A heavy sigh. “Let’s organize this mess. Time we got rid of that evil spawn.”

 “There’s something else you should know.”

 “What now?”

 “You should probably get your people out of here. We were followed today.”

 “Oh, bloody hell,” Lestrade yelled. “Do you have any idea…? No of course you don’t, it’s all about you. All about what you want and need and sod everyone else. Well fuck you, Sherlock Holmes.”

 Holmes smiled bitterly. “You can always take them to my brother. He’ll take them in. For you.”

 A dangerous look fell upon Lestrade’s face. “You bloody well forget you said that. And you,” here he wheeled on Wiggins. “You didn’t hear that either.”

 Wiggins, his world still spinning from the earlier confession, just nodded and hunched down inside himself.

 Holmes looked at him and sighed. He leaned toward Wiggins. “When we are finished here I will explain. I promise.”

 The two men turned to leave, Holmes still speaking to Lestrade about arrangements for contacting his brother and packing up Lestrade’s small town. Hurried instructions were spoken back and forth as they made their way back to the entrance. Nearing it, Lestrade grabbed Homes’ arm.

 “Look, I am willing to help you with this because it means, if nothing else, we aren’t all sitting here in the dark, waiting to be discovered by Magnussen and his lot, but I swear to god if this doesn’t work out I will kill you myself.”

 Holmes nodded. “I promise you, Lestrade, you won’t have to.”

 With the ugly reminder that Holmes was willing to go on a suicide mission, they left Lestrade and were escorted back above ground. The return trip seemed to take longer but some of that might have been the fact that Wiggins was lost in his own dark thoughts. They had arrived back at the tube station entrance.

 Leaving the shelter and back out on to the street, Holmes stopped to take the hawk from Wiggins. He looked at him closely. “I know this is a shock, but as soon as we are on our way tomorrow, I will explain everything.”

 Wiggins felt his throat close up as he tried to express why he was so distraught, but there seemed to be a depth of understanding in Holmes’ eyes. Holmes smiled and said, “If it makes you feel any better, the first time I met John, he was trying to kill me.”

 Surprised bloomed across his face and Wiggins looked at Holmes.

 “How the hell did that happen?”

 “Again, a story for another time, but trust me there is no finer, no better, braver and kinder man than John Watson. Even good men can make mistakes, Bill. Believe me, he is a good man.”

 Deciding to keep his opinion to himself until he could hear all the facts, Wiggins just stared at Holmes, but something of his willingness to believe him must have been in his eyes.

 They made their way from the tube station. They had been underground longer than Wiggins had though. The sun was lower in the sky and they would need a place to stay for the night.

 Just as they had turned away from the station a low animal growl came from their left and a tawny and black shape launched itself at them, knocking into Holmes and startling the hawk. Eyes hooded and jesses caught in his fingers, the two fell to the ground as the serval pinned Holmes down, a snarl rolling through her chest, teeth barred. The hawk cried out in confusion and the cat pounced from Holmes’ chest and landed on the bird, her mouth wrapped in a tenderly vicious embrace around the hawk’s neck. One false move and the neck would be snapped.

 “No!” shouted Wiggins, his hand outstretched. Holmes sat up, releasing the jesses, knowing if he held onto them, he could hurt the hawk’s legs. His face darkened and the wolf was present in the growl that ripped out of his throat.

 “Mary. Let. Him Go. If you hurt him, you will be hurting yourself. Don’t do it. I will kill you, if you do.”

 Mary growled back, saliva dribbling out of her mouth. She lifted a paw and pressed down on the bird’s back, claws flexing in and out. A screech of pain echoed through the deserted street.

 Wiggins thought furiously and looked around whilst the cat was distracted by Holmes and Watson. He saw a large stone upon the ground, stooped to pick it up and threw it hard at the cat’s head. It bounced off and caused her to stagger. She turned on Wiggins and hissed, animal instinct taking over. She let go of the bird in her anger and surprise and began stalking toward Wiggins. She neared close enough to pounce again. The animal was not much heavier than a housecat but taller and with her sharp claws, she could do a lot of damage.

 Just as she was ready to pounce on him, another stone whistled through the air from Holmes’ direction and hit her in the shoulder. She yowled and turned and ran. Holmes dropped on the ground beside the hawk. “John. John! Wiggins get over here!”

 Holmes took the scarf off from around his neck and wrapped around the bird. “He is hurt. You need to get him to my brother.” He rattled off the name of an old address far enough from where they were that he could make it before evening, just, if he ran all the way. “I can’t take him, it’s too far to get to before sunset. Get him there and Mycroft will see that his injuries are taken care of.”

 Wiggins hesitated for a moment, wondering how he had got himself into this mess, why he should bother to help a bird that was a man who had worked for the person he hated more than anything.

 He looked at the distress on Holmes’ face

 “All right, but that’s it. I am done with the two of you. I will take him and then you will have to find yourself another thief.”

 He didn’t know where all the rage and anger came from. Maybe he was just so tired of being lied to, but he would do this one last thing. He carefully picked up the bird and cradled him in his arms. Meanwhile, Holmes was ruthlessly stripping himself of his clothes and shoving them into the pack. “Here take this. I will follow when I can. Tell my brother I sent you. He will give you as much courtesy as he is capable of. And Wiggins, I am truly sorry we were not honest with you before. Do this for me. Take him to Mycroft and I will let you go, unharmed.”

 Wiggins turned without another word and ran off in the direction given him. He did not see Holmes drop to his knees nor watch as he brought his hands up to his head and pull at his hair.

 Running flat out and out of breath, the bird cried softly in his arms. After a horrible length of time and beyond exhausted, he finally reached the site of an old luxury hotel, one that now looked like an impenetrable fort. He started yelling as he approached, calling for Mycroft Holmes. A guard at the front of the hotel asked his business.

 “I am here to see Mycroft Holmes. Tell him his brother sent me. Tell him I have an injured hawk. He’ll understand.”

 The guard looked dubious, but sent a message with a nearby lad, who looked like that was his only job, messenger.

 The lad came back quickly and spoke to the guard. “He said to let them in and to hurry.”

 Wiggins was bustled inside. He entered the grand front of the hotel, which was decorated in marble columns and a sweeping staircase with old wooden trim. Everything was neat and well kept. Wiggins wondered how on earth this other Holmes managed to stay below the radar of the Mage and then he found he really didn’t want to know and he probably wouldn’t like the answer. He was done with the whole sordid affair. He’d drop the bird off, take his things and lose himself in the streets once more. Nothing was worth this.

 A tall man descended the stairs, a supercilious look on his face. “What has my fool of a brother done now? And why is he back in London? Does he not know his life was forfeit the moment he came back to town?”

 He looked at Wiggins the same way the other Holmes did, as if he could tell everything about him with his sweeping glance. He probably could.

 “Oh dear, has dear Captain Watson meet with an accident? Very well, bring him in here.” He turned and led the way to a room off of the entryway. It looked like an office. There was a large desk, made of some sort of dark wood and a leather sofa. Wiggins was directed to lay the bird on the sofa.

 “Leave us. I will tend to his injuries once the sun has set and he has changed back. Leave his pack too. He will need to attire himself. Oh and don’t go far. I will have some questions for you later. That is all.”

 Fuming, Wiggins left the room and slammed the door behind him. He was fed up with Holmes and Watson and hawks and wolves. He found a chair to sit upon and looked around the cold and empty lobby. As he sat there the room gradually darkened and the fairies in the lamps scattered around the room began to brighten. He was beginning to feel the effects of the rush of adrenalin and renewed grief, descend upon him, when he heard it. As the sun sank, not far from the building he was in, the forlorn cry of the wolf echoed, heard even through the thick walls of the hotel. A cry of pain, muffled and low came from the adjoining room.

 Wiggins shivered once more and drew his legs up onto the chair, wrapping his arms around them. He tried not to let the desolation of the two men penetrate the wall of anger he had built around him. But he really wasn’t successful. He knew he’d stay and he knew he would help them. He knew he had to for his own peace of mind.

 He was in this for the long haul and he hated himself at that moment as much as he hated the two men whose lives were bound up with his own.

 

 


	7. The Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks sorry for the long delay – June is a heck of a month for teachers with reports ‘n stuff & lots of family stuff & I had to buy a lawnmower – that’s more stressful than I thought it would be:P Anyway here you go. I hope you enjoy this one:)
> 
> As always I’d like to thank my marvelous friends johnsarmylady and mattsoved1 for reading this over & all my other friends who encourage me & support me everyday:)

Slowly awaking to various aches and pains was not Wiggins’ idea of the best way to rouse one’s self. He stretched carefully, placed a hand upon his neck and tried to work out the kinks. He hadn’t even been aware of falling asleep. One minute he’d been arguing with himself, the Lord, the fairies trapped in the lamps and the next he’d slipped off into a deep slumber. He decided that he was tired from the shock and stress of the last few days not to mention having had to traipse over half of London. 

Glancing about the empty lobby he realized it wasn’t as late as he had thought. The dark edges of night hovered and dawn was still hours away. He stood carefully, wincing at the soreness in his legs and looked around carefully. The door to the room John had been placed in was closed and he was curious as to how the hawk, now a man, was getting along. In spite of his anger at discovering John Watson was a Captain, former or not, under the Mage, had been quite a blow. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to forgive him.

But then again, Lord, you rather expect us to, don’t you? There was a sour tone to his thoughts. He crept quietly across the abandoned lobby and placed a hand upon the knob. Turning it carefully he opened the door a crack and peered inside. There was a soft glow of light from one fairy lamp near the sofa where he had placed the injured bird. It gleamed a little brighter as the fairies noticed Wiggins standing there. The light played softly on the man asleep on the sofa. Wiggins noticed his shirt was off, his left arm was in a sling and there were various wrappings around the back of his neck. A light blanket covered Watson from the chest down, slightly askew and a pillow held his head. Coming into the room silently as he was able, he walked over to the sofa. He saw that Watson had an old wound on his shoulder, puckered and thick with scar tissue formed during healing. He wondered at the cause, but mentally shrugged as if he didn’t care.

Mixed feelings crept through his thoughts and his heart as he looked down at the sleeping man. Here was someone, whom when he had first met, had hurt him, but as he had begun to understand what drove John Watson, what terrible weights were on his shoulders and his soul, he realized that he was a good man, a troubled man but kind and thoughtful in his heart. To discover he had been aligned with the man Wiggins hated above all others, well that was hard to take. As Wiggins watched him shuffle slightly in his sleep, a soft sigh escaped Watson’s lips. He muttered something and then whispered, just under his breath ‘Sherlock’. 

Behind Wiggins, the door creaked slightly and he span around, startled. Mycroft Holmes was standing there, in the shadows of the door. He crooked his finger at Wiggins, motioned for him to come forward. Wiggins glanced at Watson again, fixed the blanket and covered John up to his shoulders so he wouldn’t be chilled. He then followed Holmes out the door.

Led out into the lobby and across the cold marble floor, Holmes entered into a similar room on the far side. Inside was a large desk, probably for whoever had been in charge of the hotel when it had been a hotel. Holmes sat at the desk, as if he were familiar with being the leader of a small nation, all stiff back and unrevealed emotions. He indicated for Wiggins to sit in the chair opposite. Wiggins did so a little distrustfully. Whilst Mycroft Holmes watched him, Wiggins did the same back. He was slightly taller than Sherlock and his hair was red. The nose, which would not have looked out of place upon the hawk form of John Watson, sniffed the air, reflectively. His eyes were a deeper blue and not the piebald colours that ran riot in Sherlock’s.

Their parents must have really hated them to give them such outlandish names, he thought idly.

“Here, you look like you could use this.” Holmes was holding out a tall glass filled with water. Wiggins eyed it suspiciously, but the dusty feel of his mouth won out over his apprehension. It was downed swiftly and he held the glass out and jiggled it a little. Holmes lifted a brow, picked up a pitcher filled with water and lifted it to show Wiggins. Wiggins nodded and his glass was filled again. The second glass was sipped more slowly.

“If you are quite refreshed, I should like to speak with you. As I mentioned before, I have questions.”

“Yeah, right, whatever. I’ll tell you what you want. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”  
An edge of bitterness cut his voice, sharp and angry.

A wintery smile and Mycroft Holmes began to speak. “All right Mr. Wiggins. I would like to hear your side of things. What are you doing here with John Watson, where is my brother and how did you happen to get involved with all,” he waved a hand lazily in the air, “this?”

“I didn’t choose to get involved. It just sort of happened, is all. I was minding my own business when John Watson decided to injure me and then he offered to fix me up.” He clamped his lips shut. If Holmes wanted the whole story he was going to have to work for it. Even though he knew he would tell Homes whatever he wanted to hear, he was feeling obstinate and angry and wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

Clearing his throat, Holmes made a motion to shuffle some papers on his desk, pulling one out, seemingly at random. Wiggins was pretty sure the whole thing was staged and that he knew which paper he meant to grab.

“Ah yes. It says here you are Mr. Bill Wiggins, also known as Wig, Wiggy and/or Mouse, thief and sometime drug user. Your parents are deceased and your older sister is missing, presumed dead, having been taken by Magnussen’s people sometime after he gained power.”

“Leave my sister outta this.”

“Why? She’s the reason you were incarcerated in the Tower in the first place. You went to rescue her. A foolhardy move as it turned out, at least for you and perhaps for my brother as well. He is interested in your skills is he not? He wants your help breaking into the Tower.”

“You know, I ain’t so sure I want to help him, knowing what I know about John Watson. And anyway, why doesn’t he just use Watson? He’s been in there, living it up.”

“Believe me when I tell you John Watson was not ‘living it up’. And pray, tell me, how exactly would John be of any use to Sherlock when he spends half of his time as a hawk? Hard to get him to return to Sherlock as it is let alone mastermind a break in, hmmm?”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Wiggins blushed. He didn’t really think about Watson being a hawk that much anymore. He was, or had been a companion and he thought, a friend.

“I understand your reluctance to embrace the good Captain Watson now that you have discovered his little secret and I don’t mean about being a hawk. That aspect of his personality is hardly a secret. I will tell you that I too was reluctant to trust the man at first. “

“Why are you telling me this? You don’t seem like the sort who’d just give up his secrets.”

Another lifted eyebrow and a wintery smile.

“No. I am not. But I am not planning on ‘giving’ you my secrets. I have a proposal for you.”

“Oh? A proposal is it? Well now, that makes everything just fine and dandy.” A feeling of misery was added to the mixture of anger and rage. He felt that the only thing anyone wanted from him was his knowledge and skills. He wasn’t more than someone to be used. No one cared about him, as a person.

Another sharp glance, a settling of shoulders and Holmes spoke, “Mr. Wiggins, if you please.”

Still arguing with himself and feeling mutinous, he finally gave in with a violent, “Fine.” He sat back and began to tell Mycroft Homes everything he knew from the moment he met John Watson until the serval had pounced and injured the former Captain. He ended with, “And then I ran half way across London and deposited him here. Now, I think I will leave and head off on my own, thank you for the water.”

A heavy sigh came from the man across the desk. “Mr. Wiggins, kindly sit down.” The tone was firm and brooked no room for argument. “I have not told you things you will wish to hear and I do believe you will want to know what I have to say. I am confident I have found a way to break the curse.”

Caught in the act of rising out of his chair, Wiggins sat back down suddenly. Even if he was angry and feeling used, here was something that grabbed his attention. He was too curious to simply walk out of the room without finding out more. Before Holmes could speak, however, he asked something he was curious about. “Here now. Why do you trust me with all of this? I could be a spy for the Mage or out to do your brother harm. I ain’t too fond of him or his friend at the moment, am I?”

With a great rolling of eyes, Homes said, “Please, you wear your heart on your sleeve. You could no more betray the two men whose lives you have entwined with your own than I could. Now, enough of this. Can we get down to business here?”

“All right, then.”

Holmes cleared his throat again and began to speak. As the words rolled off his tongue, Wiggins found himself leaning forward, gripped in the tale of the two star crossed men. 

“I shall not tell you everything. Some things I do not know and some are better coming from Sherlock or John.” He looked into the distance. “Yes, some things would be better coming from John. Anyway here is what I can tell you.

“You must know that my brother has always been interested in solving crimes and knowing why people who are involved in law-breaking, do what they do. Even before the coming of magic he wanted to discover the why and the how of criminal activity, especially the how. He is a very intelligent man and would have done well in the sciences or perhaps in the pursuit of philosophy, but no, he wanted to be a detective. On his own terms.” A look of reminiscence crossed Mycroft’s face. “Initially he wanted to be a pirate, but that is neither here nor there. Either way, after Magnussen took over, but before Sherlock met John, he discovered that things were not what the seemed. Magnussen, who didn’t appear to have magical powers at the time of the change, suddenly had them. Now this is not terribly unusual, as many strange incidences were still happening due to the Change, but it made Sherlock curious. Sherlock investigated and in doing so found that a man named Moriarty was working for Magnussen. He was working with him very closely; doing a lot of nasty tasks that Magnussen perhaps didn’t wish to do himself. Sherlock, in his investigations got very close to Moriarty. There was a mutual fascination between the two, one a criminal mastermind and the other a gifted investigator. At some point, and I will leave this part for John and Sherlock to tell you, Sherlock met John. John was at first suspicious of Sherlock and tried, under orders from Magnussen, to dispose of my brother. Sherlock was able to convince John of his good intentions. John, who had come to the conclusion that Magnussen was not a good man, left his employ and helped Sherlock capture and kill Moriarty.”

Holmes leaned forward and looked thoughtful. It seemed as if revealing this much personal information was new to him, as if he were a man who normally kept secrets hidden deep inside. Wiggins decided he must love his brother very much, for all that he seemed cold and prickly. “You must understand that meeting Sherlock changed everything for John. He left his wife and his position as Captain of the Guard and he was a physician as well. All he had made for himself. Not just because he was gradually finding out that Magnussen was and is a truly evil man and the opposite of everything John believed in, but he was discovering that in Sherlock he found his other half. I will say this, that the two of them were more at ease together, more real, more whole than I had seen either apart, particularly my brother. Even though John left all of this behind he handed himself totally over to my brother.”

“Magnussen, of course, had other ideas. Fearing Sherlock would come after him and also enraged at the idea of John simply leaving his employment, he performed a terrible act of vengeance. John’s wife Mary, who unbeknownst to John at the time was also Magnussen’s right hand for eliminating inconvenient people, supported him in this act. There was another woman as well, Janine, Magnussen’s assistant. There is more to her I am sure, although I have yet to discover what it is. I do know Sherlock used her in an attempt to get close to Magnussen.” He shrugged. “Never underestimate the hatred of someone who has been manipulated.”

Mycroft stood abruptly and crossed the room to look out the window. The sky that was visible through the glass showed the night was still only half over. He sighed a sigh of great weight and sorrow.

He then turned back to Wiggins and continued his story. 

“One night, not long after, Magnussen called upon the powers of darkness. Not just simple vengeance for him. He called upon every demon and creature of evil and wrapped a curse of great hatred and anger upon the two men, a potent malediction designed to punish and to keep them from interfering. Mary and Janine were drawn in and helped create the curse, their retribution part of the workings to make it stronger. Unbeknownst to Mary she was also to be cursed, turned into a serval for allowing John to escape. She still had her uses and as a hunting animal could continue to do Magnussen’s bidding. Again, I find it strange that Janine was not similarly disciplined but perhaps there is more I do not know. The curse took effect on the rise of the sun the next morning and has continued every day and night since.”

He sat down again, folded his arms on the desk and looked shrewdly at Wiggins. “And now I know how to unravel it.”

Wiggins sat back, still wrapped up in the tale of the two men. His thoughts heavy with the images produced by Mycroft’s story telling.   
“’This curse, connected and controlled by the rise and setting of the sun and the moon will be broken by those two heavenly bodies. Sherlock and John must stand before Magnussen, Mary and Janine, together as two men and the curse shall fall away, never to transform them again.”

“Yeah, but that’s a little difficult to do if they ain’t human at the same time.”

“I have found a way. In a week’s time there will be an eclipse. During the day the moon will pass in front of the sun causing a day without a night and a night without a day. Because of the peculiarities of such an event, they should both be human together. But they must be standing in front of all three at that moment in order for it to work.

“Be a bit awkward if they both end up as animals, though.” Wiggins muttered.

Mycroft gave him a fierce glare. 

“Look, this is all well and good, but Sherlock, he’s planning on killing the Mage. What then?”

“He mustn’t. Not until the spell is broken, or it never will be.”

With a shrewd look, Wiggins asked, “Why haven’t you done anything about the Mage, yourself, hmmm? If he’s so bad ’n all, why you letting him run ‘round free?”

“It is not always that simple, young man. One doesn’t just haphazardly kill someone without knowing all the facts. First of all, getting rid of a Mage isn’t that easy. Secondly, if I had killed him, where would Sherlock and John be? And lastly, he has had his uses.”

Wiggins sat up straight, “Uses, eh? Oh, I see. You didn’t want to get rid of him, ’cause you got something out of him being in charge. In his pocket, are you?”

“Don’t be daft. He’s alive and in charge because there just may be other things that are worse than Magnussen. Better the devil you know.”

“Seems like a cop out, that does.” Wiggins sat back with a look of having won the argument. Mycroft simply raised his eyebrow once more.

“Well Mr. Wiggins? Are you willing to help convince my brother? He won’t believe me, but if I tell John this news, between the three of us, we might be able to persuade him to leave off killing Magnussen for now. And break the curse at the same time.”

“I will have to think about it. I want to talk with John first. I need to know some things, see.” He was quiet a minute. “You said you have a proposal. What’s in it for me? No one has really said. Everyone is wanting me to do this dangerous deed of breaking back into the Tower and yet I ain’t seeing why I should.”

Mycroft stood and held his arm to the door, “I will tell you shortly. Let us go and see if John is awake. He will also wish to hear what I know and what I need to tell you.”

Feeling he had no choice, Wiggins stood and once more followed Mycroft, this time back to John’s room.

They walked in silence and entered the room. The small amount of noise they made was enough to rouse John a little. He blinked sleepily and smiled at Wiggins. His smile faltered a bit when he saw Mycroft. “What’ going on? How did we end up here?”

“Do you remember what happened to you?” Mycroft asked, without any preamble.

“No, not really. I assume I was attacked. Where’s Sherlock?”

“Still out on the streets. You were attacked. Mr. Wiggins brought you here on Sherlock’s orders.”

John sat up a little too fast. “Is Sherlock okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine.” Wiggins was still angry even after all he had heard.

John frowned at the surly tone. “So what happened?”

“You were attacked by a hunting cat, a serval, Holmes called it.”

John looked at Mycroft. “Mary?” he asked softly. Mycroft nodded. John looked down and swallowed. He looked back at the other two. “Mycroft, may I have some water?”

“Mr. Wiggins, will you be so kind as to fetch the water from my office? Thank you.”

With a put upon sigh, Wiggins left the two men and walked back to the room he had just left. He walked in and grabbed the pitcher and a clean glass and walked back again.

He entered in time to hear John say, “Does he know?” There was a look of surprise and uneasiness sitting uncomfortably on the injured man’s face.

“No, I do not believe he does. You didn’t. He thinks her dead, after all.”

Wiggins stopped, the jug of water feeling strangely heavy in his hand. Mycroft, for all the look of him being a slow and cautious man, moved swiftly and caught the water and glass before it fell from Wiggins’ nerveless fingers.

He set the glass down and poured some water into it, handing it to John.

“This is about my sister isn’t it?’

“Yes Mr. Wiggins I’m afraid it is.”

“What do you mean, you’re afraid? You know something and you ain’t going to tell me? What is it? Is she alive? Where is she?” He was practically shouting at the two men. John looked at him with a mixture of pity and sorrow.

“She’s alive, Bill,” John said gently. “In fact, it looks like you already met her.”


	8. The Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head’s up- I am leaving next week for England and Italy. I fly out on the 18th of July and won’t be back in Canada until Aug 6. I am hoping to get another chapter up before I leave but no promises:)
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for checking this chapter out;)

The Decision

He sat on the little garden bench in the sun. Beside the former hotel, attached to it by the fence that ran around the perimeter, was a small plot of land someone had very lovingly tended. He couldn’t see Mycroft Holmes doing it, but he could see him ordering it done. It was sleeping now, all of the flowers finished and bedded down for winter, but the promise of spring was there, hidden in the slumbering foliage. The promise of so many things, buried deep down. An odd fairy flitted by and there was evidence of a gnome home under the low hanging bush near the back. He didn’t know what kind of bush it was. An odd thought coursed through his head, a remembrance of something he’d watched with his dad on that telly thing, a strange movie about a king and a quest, but full of silliness and inappropriate comedy, which of course he had loved at the time. His mother hadn’t been impressed but he could clearly remember the look of indulgent fondness at his father as she said it was all right, he could watch, just this once. The phrase ‘Get me a shrubbery’ came from nowhere and lingered in his mind. All these memories he had suppressed for so long were coming back and surfacing, now that he knew, now that he had found his sister again, sort of. 

The sun, especially for mid-November, was warm and he fell into a light doze. He hadn’t been sleeping well and he was constantly awakened by the sounds of his own cries as he dreamt about the day his house burnt down, when his parents had died and his sister was taken from him. She’d taken him out to their garden, so different from this one. She had stuffed him behind a bush at the back of the house, a shrubbery; he felt a giggle, sad and lost, well up in his chest. He closed his eyes. He really needed sleep. He drifted in and out of memories.

“Don’t move,” she had said. She was older than him by quite a bit and he loved her more than anything and would have done whatever she’d asked. “Don’t move, don’t make a sound. I’ll be right back.” But she hadn’t come back. He’d heard her screams and he had been too afraid to come out. He’d covered his ears and cried silently. She had said not to move and not to make a sound so he hadn’t. The neighbours discovered him the next day, huddled into a ball, cold and frightened. How he had not remembered any of this before was beyond him. It had all come flooding back and now he couldn’t have stopped the memories if he had wanted to.

The yellow brilliance and warmth of the sun caressed his closed lids as he turned his face to its direction. He heard the faint cry of a hawk. Almost a week later, Watson’s wing must have healed enough for him to fly. There was the sound of footsteps over grass and a body thumped down on the bench beside him. Shuffling sounds, a match being struck and the tang of smoke. He opened one eye a crack and watched as Sherlock Holmes tilted his head back and a column of smoke left his lips. He turned to look at Wiggins.

“Don’t tell John. He hates it.” A pause and then a hint of a smile. “Actually the wolf hates it, too.”

“You talk to the wolf?”

Holmes’ long pale hand came up and rubbed at his bottom lip. “Well, not really, but he’s here inside my head and I can feel him. He’s annoyed. His feelings are less complicated than mine.”

“You are very free with information today.” He took up his vigilance of the garden once more. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Holmes was squinting down at his cigarette, frowning at it.

“These aren’t the same as I remember. Not real tobacco you know. But it’s not horrible. Strange taste to it. Want one?” He held out a pouch to Wiggins, who stared at it a moment and then took one. “Not as good as some, better than anything the trolls produce. Never take a fag from a troll.”

Another match struck and Wiggins leaned back, inhaling the acrid smoke. The two men sat in silence for a while. They were interrupted by the cry of the hawk once more. Holmes looked up as it circled lower. He braced his arm and whistled sharply to him. Watson came down, neither too fast nor slow, but at a moderate rate, as if he were testing the strength of his wing. He landed gracefully on the outstretched arm and ruffled his feathers before settling down to looked at his partner.

A soft smile hovered on Holmes’ mouth. “You did very well today, but you shouldn’t over tax yourself.”

He hooded the hawk and ran a light hand down his back.

“He healed up pretty quick,” Wiggins commented.

“We tend to. Comes with the curse, I guess.”

Silence again. Wiggins began to settle back against the bench. He hoped Holmes was finished talking for a bit. He really didn’t want to think about anything.

“He’s concerned for you.”

Wiggins sighed. Not meant to be.

“And you know this how?”

“He left it in the journal, explained how hard it was for you to hear about your sister.”

Wiggins grunted.

“You’ve stopped talking to God, haven’t you?”

Sitting up abruptly, anger flowed through him free and easily. “No, we are not doing this. I don’t know what you’re playing at. You coming over here all friendly like. I don’t get a word out of you for days on the road and now we’re best mates and you all opening up to me. That ain’t you. That’s him!” he jabbed a finger at the bird. “And I ain’t talking to him!” He threw down the cigarette, crushed it out under his foot and made to leave. A hand caught his arm. He wrenched it out with a hard twist.

“Bill, look. You’re right. I am not good at this; I am not good at feelings and communicating. John’s better at being sympathetic, but he’s not available right now. He said I had to try. You aren’t talking to him and…” he floundered a bit. “We need you. We need you to get us into the Tower. We need you to help us.”

Head bowed under the pressure of too much sorrow, too many memories, Wiggins rubbed his eyes. He stood and looked over the garden. There had been peace, of sorts here, momentarily, but he knew it had disappeared. He refused to look at the two lost souls on the bench. It hurt too much. It was too much. They had no idea.

Sod them. Sod everything.

He turned and left.

Back in the room he had been given, he threw himself on the bed, his arms pillowed his head. The tight well of tears he had been mostly successful at suppressing threatened him once more. He scrubbed his eyes and rolled over onto his stomach.

Exhausted and emotionally drained, he fell into a troubled sleep. In dreaming he replayed the conversation and the shock of discovery of what had happened to his sister, of what she’d become. There was no escaping it, even if he had wanted to. It taunted him and followed him into sleep.

oOo

Wiggins wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “What? What do you mean I’ve met her? I ain’t talked to hardly anyone since we’ve been on this, this thing we are doing, let alone many women, only that Donovan and it ain’t her, so who?” His heart was hammering loudly in his ears and he wasn’t sure he heard Watson’s next words clearly.

“Mary. Mary is your sister. Mycroft has…”

“Whoa, whoa no! No, that cat ain’t my sister. Her name was Alice, not Mary!”

“Please Mr. Wiggins, if you would be so good as to sit down, John and I can explain.” Watson threw him a look. “Very well, I can explain how I know for certain your sister is indeed John’s wife.”

Wiggins just stared. He heard a faint high-pitched hum in his head & he wondered why the room was growing dim. He felt firmness under his seat as Holmes pushed him into a chair. With detachment, he noticed that Watson was struggling to reach him to help him, which he found a little funny, as Watson was the one who was injured. 

“Mr. Wiggins, can you hear me?” a soft voice asked him. He looked confusedly at Mycroft Holmes. 

“Yeah. Yeah I can hear you. Just got a bit dizzy, is all.” He groaned and ran a hand over his face. Then leaned forward until the vertigo had past. 

Vision still flickering, he looked up into the pale face of John Watson. “Did you know?” Softly, deadly. He was through with them if he’d known, so terribly over all of the lying and secrets. 

Watson shook his head and said, “No Bill, I did not.” Watson’s eyes were filled with unwavering sorrow and compassion. He held eye contact steadily for a long time and it was there, the truth, Watson was not lying about this, not holding back. Wiggins believed him. He believed him because there was a matching depth of horror in Watson’s eyes he knew was mirrored in his own. Nodding slowly, he said, “Right. Well then.” He squinted at Holmes. “So, umm, I have been believing she was dead all this time.” The sound of his voice, even to his own ears, was raw and pained.

Holmes cleared his throat and sat down on another chair. “You should know, Mr. Wiggins, that I am the one who discovered this little connection between yourself and John. I have been trying to find chinks in Magnessen’s armour, tying to discover ways of getting to him and have been investigating his people. When John began working with Sherlock, when he was first convinced to join with us, he was able to give me insight into many of the people surrounding him, including his wife, Mary. There were certain details he revealed to me, which I have been thinking about these past two years. When I discovered your involvement with my brother, I spoke to some of my contacts, delved into your background and I have since come to the conclusion that Mary Elizabeth Watson was at one time Alice Grace Wiggins.”

“But how? I don’t understand.”

Holmes rolled his eyes, his lack of patience with Wiggins evidently loud and clear. Watson threw him another glare. 

“I have my methods.” A sniff, implying he wasn’t going to waste time telling Wiggins what they were.

“Mycroft,” Watson said quietly but sternly, the Captain coming through loud and clear.

Holmes stared hard at Watson, but the steel that ran through Watson’s small frame was unbending. Holmes huffed and turned back to Wiggins. “Let’s just say that Magnussen and I have several things in common, one of which is that I have magic at my disposal. Not the way he has.”

“So you’re a…”

“Yes.”

“And you can do…”

“Yes, but on a different level. I use mine to find things out. I know things, things of importance. It doesn’t always work the way I want it to,” Holmes sniffed again. “But it works well enough. I also have at my disposal a vast network of people who are interested in reporting to me certain facts. It has taken a long time to build up trust. Now, can we get on with it?”

“You sound rather a lot like the Mage himself, Mr. Holmes. As if you are interested in power and control.” 

Another small smile, more like a smirk. “Nonsense. I am not interested in being in charge. I am only interested in reclaiming my brother and his,” he paused and glanced at Watson, “his partner.”

“Yeah, but Mycroft, you may never have been interested in being the face of power but you have always been interested in being the one who was in control.”

A dark look was thrown at Watson. The two men glared at each other for an uncomfortably long time. “You will never forgive me will you, John? You and Sherlock?”

“I would if I thought it meant anything to you.”

Wiggins looked from one to the other, wondering what else was not being said.

“Okay look, you two, just tell me about my sister.”

“I will leave you to discuss this, John. You are more familiar with all of the details. I need to see to it that Sherlock makes it here before dawn.” Holmes rose and left the room. Silence joined them as each thought about what had been voiced here tonight, the quiet finally broken by both men speaking at once.

“Look Bill, I honestly didn’t know she had any other name until tonight. If I had known…”

“Holmes, Sherlock that is, said you and your wife were not to be talked about, not that I had time to say anything to you, but…”

They both stopped and John said, “Go ahead.” A compassionate look graced his face.

Here is a good man, thought Wiggins. No matter what he had done in the past, he was a good man. Holmes had been right. Wiggins sighed and said, “I expect you were a bit surprised to discover your wife was a cat. Bad enough your boyfriend is a wolf. Must be hard, attracting these weird sorts.”

Watson blinked and then laughed, bright, sharp, undertones of pain but humour was laced through it, preventing it from being completely dark. He shook his head and looked at Wiggins, a grim smile on his face. “I guess you could say I have a type. But Bill, my issues aren’t what are important here. She’s your sister. How are you handling this?”

A shrug of nonchalance both knew was faked. “I have spent a long time thinking she was dead and now to discover she ain’t and she is working for the man who took her, well that’s a lot, you know? I don’t know. I don’t know what to say or who to ask.”  
He bent his head again and stared at his folded hands.

There was movement from the bed and he looked up in time to see Watson getting up and out of it. “Whoa, you shouldn’t be doing that. You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine. She just wrenched my bad shoulder and left some claw and teeth marks. I’ve had worse.” He sat down on the floor beside Wiggins’ chair, looking up at him. “Bill, I can tell you what I do know, but some of it won’t be good. Do you understand? She isn’t the same person you grew up with. She’s not who I thought I’d married.”

Tight tears welled up behind Wiggins’ eyes and a scalding sensation permeated his lungs, but he nodded. “Better to know, than not. I need to know, John. I can handle more than you think. And it can’t be any worse than what I’ve imagined.”

“All right, but Bill, it really can.” He shifted a bit to get more comfortable, a thoughtful look upon his face. “It’s a long story and I’m not going to tell you everything tonight, but I will hit the highlights, okay? If you think of something to ask me, I will do my best to give you an honest answer.” At Wiggins’ nod, he launched into his tale.

“I worked for Magnussen for a long time. I am nether proud of that nor am I ashamed of most of what I had to do. I thought I was working for a good man, tough but fair. Someone who was interested in helping people recover. I was blind and stupid. There were, and are, a lot of good people working for him. Your sister is not one of them. I don’t know what she was like growing up, but if she was a good person, if she was kind, it was driven out of her, by Magnussen and by his right hand man, Moriarty.” There he paused as he looked at Wiggins as if he were trying to see how well he was handling it. Wiggins just stared at him, trying not to let his feelings show. He had asked for this, but he knew no matter what Watson said, he was wrong about this. His sister was a good person. She had to be.

Watson continued, “I met her through one of Moriarty’s underlings. She had come with a group of new people to the Tower, additions to the guards. Magnussen was becoming concerned about fringe groups, Lestrade’s group and the Holmes brothers, trying to take over. He said they were dangerous. So he sent for reinforcements. She was young and pretty, funny and seemed kind. I liked her right away. We decided to get married, too fast now it seems. Things were good for a while. It didn’t last.” He shifted a bit and stood. He sat back onto the bed. 

“It all came to a head when I was sent out to track down the Holmes brothers. I found Sherlock, alone. He took one look at me and said I was an idiot, that I was too good for Magnussen. I didn’t take it well. I tried to shoot him.” Watson laughed, not bitter this time, but in fondness. “Long and short of it was he finally convinced me. I went with him to meet Mycroft. They showed me a lot of things that changed my mind. They covinced me that Mary was working alongside Moriarty as an assassin, killing innocent and not so innocent people.” He cleared his throat; anger, shame and hurt were evident in his next words. “I left and went with him, freely and willingly, turned my back on everything. I am not proud of leaving Mary, but I hadn’t felt alive, really alive until I met Sherlock.” He looked away for a moment, a flush brightened his skin. Looking ashamed, but determined, he continued. “Not long after we went after Moriarty. Moriarty was killed and Magnussen was furious. He sent Mary after me. She shot Sherlock, winged him. She was going to shoot me too, but she told me she wouldn’t because she loved me, that I was hers, all I had to do was come back with her. I said I couldn’t love her anymore, not after everything she’d done before, but especially after she had shot Sherlock. She laughed. It wasn’t her usual laugh. It was hard and cruel. She said there was no leaving Magnussen. She had been sent to bring me back dead or alive and to kill either Mycroft or Sherlock if not both. I told her I wouldn’t let that happen. I told her to leave, to let us go and she wouldn’t. I managed to knock her out and got Sherlock out of there. Not long after Sherlock and I, well...”

Wiggins could see how hard some of this was for Watson to say, but he didn’t care. He felt his insides churn. He was having a great deal of difficulty listening to any of this. 

During the break in his story, Watson stopped to drink some water from the glass. “She had asked me, just before I knocked her out, why, why I wouldn’t come back with her. She had almost pleaded. I told her I couldn’t, that I loved someone else now. She was furious and yelled and screamed at me, told me she had already lost everything she couldn’t lose me. The rest you know. I stayed with Sherlock and soon after we were together, I woke up as a hawk. I don’t know how. I do know why. I know Mary was punished along with us, for letting me escape, for not killing Sherlock and Mycroft. Didn’t matter if she was overpowered by me. She had failed. Magnussen cursed all of us, me for leaving him and Sherlock for being in the way.”

Wiggins just looked at Watson. He stood and said, “You’re wrong. That Mary person? Your wife? She ain’t my sister. She could never have done what you said.”

He turned and left the room.

oOo

The clarity of the dream of the conversation with Watson morphed and muddled the deeper he fell asleep. This other dream was like swimming through molasses. The more he struggled the harder it was to move. He was lost in a tangle of brambles, which pulled and clutched at his sleeves. The brambles and branches turned into hands, hands trying to hold him back. Strange voices muttered and wailed on the dry, desiccate wind. He was looking for something, for someone. He couldn’t find it, couldn’t find them. Someone, a familiar voice, called his name. He turned, trying to brush and pull the hands to get them to let go, trying to get to the person who was calling, calling and crying. 

A shape flowed by his side, large and dark. The wolf. He looked overhead and knew the hawk was there. He pushed and heaved his way through, finally coming to a clearing. There a woman stood, a pale woman with golden hair. She turned to him, chains upon her wrists. She begged him to let her go, to release her, to forgive her and forget her. A shadowy man came up behind her and placed a gun in her hand, a gun like Watson’s, black and deadly. She lifted it up and aimed at the wolf. He tried to run faster, tried to stop her, but he couldn’t reach her. The gun fired, shooting the wolf. Blood flowed from the still body lying on the ground. A shriek of anger called out of the sky as the hawk plummeted downward, claws extended. Again she took aim and fired, killing the hawk. The shadowy figure behind her tipped back his head and laughed, clapping his hands with glee. The shape pointed at him and a dark and indistinct voice said, “And now your brother and you will belong to me.” The woman took aim and a loud report filled the air.

Wiggins woke with a start, his heart pounding and traces of tears on his cheeks. Darkness was just beginning to fill the room. He glanced around frowning at how late he’d slept. There was just enough light to make out the door. He left the bed, crossed the floor and went out to the hallway. He stood at the top of the grand staircase, where he could make out the soft murmur of voices coming from the floor below. He stood deep in thought, remembering details of the dreams, the conversation with Watson, the horror and sadness of the other one. A decision needed to be made. Squaring his shoulders, he trotted down the stairs, following the sound of the voices. He saw, upon arriving at the bottom, Watson and Mycroft Holmes stood in the door of Holmes’ office. The wolf sat at Watson’s feet and perked up his ears at Wiggins’ arrival, tongue lolling. The two men ceased their conversation and turned to Wiggins.

Standing in the light of the office, he cocked his head and looked at them, Watson in particular. “I have been thinking. I have been remembering. I still don’t want to believe she’s who or what you say. I want to remember my sister for who she was. Even if she is this Mary, she is no longer Alice. It’s time for me to move on, grow up I guess and let her go. I know what needs to be done and I will do what you ask. You and Sherlock have a plan to stop Magnussen. He’s the cause of all of this, all of this sorrow and grief, all of this wanting to hurt people and control their lives. I will help you. I will help you get into that god-awful tower. I will help you kill that son of a bitch. I will help because there’s nothing else left for me to do.”

Watson smiled, sorrowfully, compassionately. “Let’s get started then.” And Wiggins followed him into the office.


	9. The Eclipse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been to the Tower of London a couple of times – lately with my lovely friend johnsarmylady and our children, so I do know the lay of the land, but I have taken a bit of artistic license with a few things:  
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for checking this for me:)
> 
> Still don’t own!

It was going to be such a good day, clear and sunny; so full of potential and there would be good visibility to watch the celestial event. He hummed to himself, something light and spritely, rather like the feeling he had inside his chest. Unusual.

They were coming for him today. It was going to be flawless. He would have Holmes and Watson in his grasp and once he had them he would also have Mycroft and there would be three more irritations dealt with. He should really have planned this long ago, this instead of the curse. At the time the curse served its purpose and really it had been out of his hands. It had been so beautifully wrought and he had been intensely captivated by the effects. Something like that, made out of nightmares and pain, once dreamt of, needed to be unleashed and admired. It had served as a warning as well, that he wasn’t to be trifled with.

He entered his throne room, the perfect room, with a window at the right angle to catch the eclipse, frame it just so when it started, the glass having been removed so the view wouldn’t be obscured. He looked around carefully, checking to see if Janine had completed the list he had tasked her with. She was so efficient and so talented. She almost knew what he wanted before he did himself. Ah yes, everything was ready, everything polished and cleaned, everything looking just so, right down to his little Mary sitting at the foot of his throne. Janine would be rewarded for bringing her back.

“Hello Mary, so nice to see you again. You didn’t try very hard. You should have been able to capture at least one of them for me. If I had one, I’d soon have the other.” She growled at him, her neck straining against the collar he had had Janine place around her neck. He wagged a finger at her. “Now, now, that is no way to talk. You failed. You know if you cannot do a simple job, I have no use for you. You have been a very bad girl. Very bad. So now we use a collar and a leash. Just accept it and move on, hmmm?” He bent down to pat her on the head and her growl intensified. He leaned into her face. “Do not even think about it, my dear.” He grabbed the leash near where it was attached to the collar and shook it hard and then stroked her head. “There now, much better. See? We can be friends again. As long as you simply do what I ask.” He shook her again as she lay at his feet panting, growls subsiding.

He sat, crossed his legs and raised a hand. A servant came with coffee in a beautiful porcelain cup. Very hard to get these days but he had his connections. Janine saw to it he had his coffee every day. What a well-trained girl she was.

Yes it was going to be a beautiful day.

And look the fun was about to begin. Right on time.

oOo

“Well Lord, I didn’t think I’d be talking to you again just yet. Still a little miffed about all of this, but who am I to question your wisdom? Oh lord…little lord, not you Lord… this is mucky work. I know I am supposed to commit myself into your hands, but I’ve already done this once! I’ve come full circle, coming back here to the Tower. I’d like to think there is some higher purpose in this. It certainly would reflect well on you.” 

Wiggins was crawling on hands and knees, slowly, painfully, through a disused access tunnel. Long hidden in Tower lore, it had been put to use when the building had been modernized, bringing in telecommunications and electrical cables. When the Change hit, it was forgotten and as the river altered its banks and crept higher it had become wet with damp. Slime and moss trailed along the old brickwork, created green and black patterns, reminiscent of maps Wiggins could remember looking at as a boy. These were more like hidden trails the Fair Folk would use, for he could not read the lay of the land hidden on the walls of the tunnel. Best get back to concentrating Bill. Wouldn’t do to not be paying attention and miss a turn. It had been a long time since he was last here and his mind had become somewhat addled thanks to the Fairy Dust he’d consumed. Since hooking up with Holmes and Watson he hadn’t really craved anything stronger than water. Those two were enough to keep adrenalin pumping through his veins and his mind occupied.

In the gloom from the torch he carried, one that Holmes the elder had procured for him from somewhere, he could see that up ahead there was a fork, a junction where the tunnel had split into two. There was a decision to be made and he had to think. The last time through here he had been coming the other way and high with fear, dread flavouring his spit, anticipation of being caught sang in his blood. He closed his eyes and thought back, trying to access memories the way Holmes had been showing whilst they had waited. He had to go deep, back farther than he had practiced. He was distracted by recent events, several in particular, Holmes arguing with him about coming, Watson arguing with Holmes about coming. A distressing conversation overheard between the two brothers. The image of Mycroft gave him the errant thought he was the only one who hadn’t wanted to tag along. Just as well, that poncy git in his fancy clothes would have balked at first sight of the water Wiggins was kneeling in. 

“Do move along, Wiggins,” drawled that annoyingly posh baritone voice from behind him. “We do need to get there today and the eclipse will not wait for us.”

Wiggins sighed and glanced behind him. Holmes of course had won and was following behind. He didn’t seem to be afraid to get dirty. John had stayed with Mycroft, mostly due to the fact he could be outvoted in bird form. “I thought you didn’t believe in that?”

“I don’t, but it is a convenient distraction. Magnussen will be interested and will probably be scouring the heavens. Perhaps there is dark magic to weld under its influence. Either way he is going to die today, so let’s get a move on, shall we?”

“Yeah, I’m trying, but I figure you’d rather not get lost down here and starve to death.”

He turned and thought some more. “This way,” he said at last.

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” he muttered.

They made their way slowly until finally they reached an old metal door. It looked as if it hadn’t been unsealed in years. There must have been a trick to it because after a few moments of huffing and swearing Wiggins managed to get it open and squeezed through. The space was barely wide enough for Holmes. He commented, “John wouldn’t have made it through. Good thing he stayed behind.”

“He would have done in current form. You know, I don’t think he’d gonna thank you for that.” Wiggins stopped. The overheard conversation had been tugging at his mind and he had to ask. He wanted to along the way but had been too busy trying to get them here in one piece. “Are you gonna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“About what you asked your brother to do?”

Holmes’ face shuttered closed. “That is not your concern.”

“’Cause I am thinking that maybe it’s not what John would want.”

“We are not having this discussion.”

Wiggins shrugged. “I think he’d have liked a choice. I know I would.”

Abruptly Wiggins found himself shoved up against a wall. “Do you have any idea what it’s like? Do you?” hissed Holmes. “Living like this. We are not even alive. We just exist. No intellect, no complex feelings, just instinct. And nothing else.” He shoved Wiggins hard again. “We are on a suicide mission in case you have forgotten. We aren’t coming back from this. I will not let John live a half life without me, without any hope.”

Before he could be shoved yet again, Wiggins placed his hands on Holmes’ chest, stopping him. “You had hope. You just chose not to listen. Your brother says this will work, but you didn’t bring John with you. Are you too scared or do you simply not like your brother to be right, ‘cause either way it’s stupid? John don’t need your protection from this.”

The face before him crumpled for a moment and Holmes looked down. He whispered, “He’s all I have.” Wiggins reached to grip this shoulder, but before he could the shutters closed once more. Holmes straightened and tugged his clothing back into place. “We will not discuss this again. We are here to end this, not to be maudlin. This is not the time nor place. Get me to Magnussen, now.” There was a brief suspension of time hanging between them, a breath of air and then Holmes looked at Wiggins. In the dark it was hard to see much, but there was a depth of pain swimming in his eyes that shone through the gloom. “Bill, it’s really not your business.”

Eyes narrowed and chin thrust out, Wiggins nodded tightly, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to say this last piece, “You’re wrong. It is my business and having Mycroft kill John when this all goes to hell is not what you should have asked him to do. I think you’re too afraid to live.”

Holmes just looked at him darkly, silently, neither acknowledging Wiggins nor denying his comment. They continued down the old hallway and finally came out another unused door hidden behind a covering of some sort of climbing vine. The old grassy courtyard was open and empty. The two men looked around suspiciously but there was nothing and no one. It felt too easy as they made their way along the old tourist paths and past a cage full of ravens, arguing in the morning light. 

“I see even Magnussen sticks to the old traditions,” drawled Holmes.

“When it suits him. This way. He likes sitting in what he calls the throne room. Use to be big glass cases there held armour and weapons and stuff. I remember from before. My dad use to like coming here.”

“And you had the opportunity to see Magnussen there when you were here last?”

“Yeah, when they first brought me in.” He looked sullenly at Holmes. “But I ain’t talking about it.”

“Just get me there.”

He turned and continued to make his way along the pathways until he found the building they were looking for. In the old days, back before, everything had been conveniently marked for visitors. Now Wiggins was relying on his faulty memory. They crept up the stairs feeling very exposed, down a short corridor and entered a large room. They made their way through a short labyrinth, still not meeting anyone along the way

“It’s got to be a trap.”

Holmes looked at him the way he did with people who simply did not think. He scowled, rolled his eyes and whispered back, “of course it’s trap.” At that moment both noticed at the far end of the room, there he was, finally, The Mage, perched on his throne like a malevolent crow, without a care, sipping at something hot, the steam from the cup curling and caressing his face, as he wore a smug and satisfied look. 

“Gentlemen, how good of you to join me. Mr. Wiggins, nice of you to return. It’s been too long and Mr. Holmes the younger. But I am distressed, where is your beloved partner, the honourable Captain Watson? Mary was so looking forward to seeing him. She didn’t get to convey all she wished the last time you met. Although I did hear he was injured. Could he not come with you? You realize the curse can’t be broken unless you are both here.” He smiled at them. From where they stood it could have been mistaken for something benign, something almost fatherly. 

“Did you bring Captain Watson’s gun, Mr. Holmes? I think you did. You plan to kill me. It won’t do you any good. I am thoroughly protected by magic, you see. You can’t harm me. Go ahead. Try. Come on, try Mr. Holmes.”

At first he had looked stunned by Magnussen’s cold speech, but with a cry of rage Holmes drew the gun from the pocket of his coat and aimed. He definitely pulled the trigger and there was a loud retort from the weapon, but Magnussen just stood and laughed. Wiggins knew they were too close to have missed. 

“You see? You can’t kill me. And why would you foolish man? Your Captain is not here, the eclipse will soon begin and your curse will go on. Kill me before then and you will understand nothing.” 

There was a subtle shift in the light, as if a cloud were passing in front of the sun. Holmes looked to the window above. It just confirmed what he already knew. It was not a cloud. Just there, framed in the window, a quick glance so as to avoid hurting his eyes, the dark sliver of the moon began its passage, darkening, concealing the warm rays of the sun.

Magnussen stepped closer to the pair. “Do you feel it Mr. Holmes, the change? Do you feel it in your molecules, in your atoms, in your DNA? Your body is confused. The eclipse is beginning and the moon is appearing but you don’t change. 

A grin split Magnussen’s face and he leaned forward. “You understand now, don’t you? You should have brought him with you. You would then be standing here together, side by side, both as men. Not that it would have done you any good.”

The look of understanding turned to one of horror on Holmes’ face. Holmes started to sink to the floor, but caught himself with a shudder. He refused to collapse, here in this place, in front of this man. The unearthly eyes turned to Wiggins. “What have I done? I told Mycroft. I told him I would kill Magnussen, but if the eclipse happened and we didn’t come back to kill John. What have I done?”

He turned to the frame of sky and screamed out one word, a raw and lonely sound.

“John!”

The useless gun rose, anger raked his face, “Damn you. Damn you to hell.” But before he could fire again, there was a sound, low and tender at the back. In reply to that harsh call one word came the response. One word said simply with love and joy.

“Sherlock?”

A pause, long and reverent. Holmes closed his eyes, his brow furrowed. He dared not look, in case it was not real, in case it was too much. Then the pain and anguish cleared and was replaced with wonder and elation. He had heard a voice he had only dreamt of and had desperately missed the last two years. 

He turned.

Watson stood there, slightly shadowed by the velvet curtains, almost as obscured from Sherlock’s vision, as he had been through this torturous journey, a slightly bemused look on his face. The look he gave Sherlock reminded him of when they had first met and John impressed and dazzled him with a noteworthy ‘brilliant’ in reaction to his deductions of him. This time it was John who was brilliant. Who stood there in simple splendour, wholly human, his honest and careworn face the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen. When John’s eyes caught Sherlock’s it was as if there was no one else in the word, they were the only two existing. The moment stretched between them, charged with electricity and promise. It reached the point where the room vibrated with unspoken tension and John took a step forward and at the exact instant, so did Sherlock. They both moved so fast toward one another they were blurred. There was a loud crash as they came together. Sherlock grabbed John’s face and held it, his eyes drinking in a sight he thought to never see again, his fingers tracing his jaw, his cheeks, wonder in his touch, fear that it would disappear to quickly, that it wasn’t real, he’d wake up in a cold and lonely bed as a hawk took John’s place. The expression was mirrored on John’s face and he reached up on his toes, and kissed Sherlock soundly. He drew back a little and said, “It’s true. It worked.”

“How?” Sherlock’s voice choked out. “I told…how?”

John laughed, such a beautiful sound. “You marvellous, idiotic man. We will have words after this is over. Mycroft followed behind you two, so intent were you on getting here, neither of you noticed.”

They stood in the eerie light from the growing eclipse, framed and captured in its unearthly radiance and there was a moment of fierce intensity as the two men ignored everything and just looked at each other and then Sherlock bent down and wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close as if he were trying to absorb John into his skin, keep him there so he could never leave, so he would be safe. John closed his eyes and inhaled the rich fragrance of Sherlock’s own unique scent, a silent tear leaked from his eye as he did. Then he lifted his head and their lips met again and this time there were no pauses and no stopping. The kiss went on for an age and it rather looked as if they might never end it, when a throat cleared and they broke apart, still grinning madly, still holding each other with arms and bodies and eyes. Sherlock risked a look and saw his brother standing at the back of the room, “Oh, it’s you,” he said, a scowl on his face. “Mycroft, I asked you to do one thing for me and you couldn’t even manage that.”

“Hey!” John said and swatted him. “He would have killed me if he’d done.”

“Yes, but now I have to be grateful to him,” muttered Sherlock.

Mycroft smirked at the two men and then said, “If you have quite finished for the moment, we have some business to attend to.” Wiggins was surprised to see him here, having thought he wouldn’t have wanted to get mucky. He did look odd in what could loosely be termed street clothes, jeans and a pullover, both covered in muck from the tunnels.

Mycroft turned to face Magnussen. “My men have entered the premises and are detaining your forces. It would be wise of you to surrender. Now that your curse has been broken, we can be rid of you. You have lost.”

Magnussen stared at Mycroft and then began to laugh. At first it was silently, his shoulders shaking, but it couldn’t be contained and he tilted his head back. Great peals of laughter rang from his mouth, not merry but harsh and satisfied, cruel. He wiped away tears that had formed in his eyes.

“Oh you fools. You stupid fools. Do you think I would let you do this so easily? Do you think I do not have plans laid, that I did not anticipate all contingencies?” He laughed harder. He continued between gasps of breath, “This is beautiful and perfect. You still believe it is me and that I will be caught and subdued so easily. It does pay to have good advertising. Of course,” the laughter was subsiding and turning into quieter chuckles, “of course I have good help. Good help that will not let you harm me.”

“I don’t understand,” said John, puzzled. “We’re standing here. Together. Both as men. The curse is broken.”

“Oh yes, that part worked and yes the curse is broken as long as the eclipse continues but once the moon finishes its journey it will be day again and you, will be your usual dumb and witless self, only as the hawk once more.” He giggled a bit longer. “You have a few more minutes and then sadly no more. Not until the next eclipse which won’t happen for a very long time. How terribly sad.”

John looked at Sherlock, eyes pleading for enlightenment. He was looking at the ground. Wiggins could see thoughts racing across his face. Dawn broke across Holmes’ face and he looked back at Magnussen, fiercely. “You are not a mage. You just call yourself that.”

“I? No, I have never had a magical bone in my body. I just know how to use people so very well. I have always gathered and controlled useful individuals.”

Understanding bloomed across Sherlock’s face. He clapped his hands to his head, “Stupid. I have been so stupid.” He closed his eyes. “Of course.”

“What?” asked John.

Sherlock turned to John, wonder and love still there in his eyes but pain and sorrow were reclaiming their depths.

“Moriarty. He was behind this. He was the mage.” 

“But he was killed before we left. It couldn’t have been him.”

“No,” said Sherlock, “but magic runs in families. Who else do we know, employed by Magnussen, dark hair and eyes and has an Irish accent? It’s too much of a coincidence.”

A soft lilting voice came from off to the side.

“Very good, Mr. Holmes. But it took you long enough.” Janine stepped out of the shadows of the drapes, walked forward and stood by Magnussen’s side.

Magnussen scowled. “You were told to stay back so the curse would not be broken. They are free of it now, stupid girl”

Janine looked down at Magnussen. “I am tired of that.”

“Tired of what?”

“Being belittled by you. It was fun in the beginning, taking over for Jim dear, hiding my powers, keeping quiet so I wouldn’t meet the same fate as my beloved brother but I think I’m done now. You were very handy to use, to control from behind the scenes.” A dark and complicated expression crossed her features and she reached over to Magnussen and stroked his cheek, just once. “Bye!” she said cheerfully.

Staring at her, his mouth open just a little, Magnussen started to shake and his body convulsed uncontrollably, drool escaping down his chin. John started forward but Sherlock grabbed his arm holding him back. “No, don’t. You can’t do anything for him. And why would you?”

In a matter of seconds Magnussen was dead.

Janine turned and faced the three men. “Hello boys,” she smiled at them, her face beautiful, but her eyes cold and dark.


	10. The Unbinding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I finally got this chapter put together – sorry it’s been so long – (puts hands over face) – I hadn’t forgotten it – it just wasn’t ready. The good news is there is one more chapter – an epilogue - & it will be just John and Sherlock (winks). It is also mostly written, ‘cause that is what I like to write:D  
> I’d like to thank everyone for their patience & for sticking with this.   
> Thanks to mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for love, support, virtual tea – really tea when we can get it:D  
> Warnings – slightly messy death

Wiggins had listened to Holmes and Watson speak of Moriarty. They, in turn, had spoken of the insanity of the man when he’d been alive. Certainly there would be some throughout the city who remembered him. The nightmare he had been became the villain mothers would eventually use to threaten their children with if they dared to misbehave. ‘Do as you’re told, or Moriarty will get you.’

 

Never having meet, Moriarty, his sister scared him more. When he heard the stories of Moriarty, in all of them he would explode violently and take out half of London, just to get the attention of one person. Janine on the other hand, appeared calm and unruffled, reasonable, standing there. There was no denying she was beautiful, wearing a merry expression on her face, as if she had no other purpose but to provide delight to those assembled. She looked down upon them all and smiled that beatific smile. Then you looked in her eyes; cold they were, cold as the ninth level of hell, dark and deep, holding infinite secrets and the key to the world’s ending. Wiggins shivered and felt more afraid than he had been for a very long time.

 

“Hello boys,” she said, her voice beautiful and rich. “Glad you could make it. I rather hoped you’d be here for the whole breaking of the curse thing. It’s been rather dull sitting around waiting for you. This is so much more satisfying, taking care of you personally.”

 

“If you wanted us dead, why do you not just kill us?” Sherlock asked, his face expressionless.

 

Janine walked down the stairs of the dais and over toward where Sherlock and John stood. “Now Sherlock, what fun would there have been in that? I wanted to make you suffer!” Her mouth curved into an even greater smile of goodwill. “You and Johnny-boy here were both so stupid, so full of yourselves. Didn’t think of anyone else, so wrapped up in love for each other. Do-gooders, the both of you. Did you know he was my twin? Jim? He was. I felt it. I felt the moment he died, killed by you both. I felt it in my heart. Broke it right in two.” She leaned in as if she were sharing a secret wondrous and rare as her eyes travelled up and down their bodies. “I wanted you two to feel it as well, feel what it was like to not have half your heart.”

 

“The curse was your idea?” John asked.

 

“Oh Johnny, it’s a good thing you are good looking,” she stopped in front of him and ran her hand intimately over John’s chest. “You are one dumb fuck, do you know that?”

 

“I just wanted to be sure,” he said. “I wanted to make sure I returned these to the rightful owner.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out thin strips of leather. Opening his hand, he held it out for Janine to see. “Sherlock and I, we are no longer your playthings. You do not own us.” He said it quietly, but steeped in contempt. The leather jesses were dropped at her feet and John took his foot and ground them into the floor. For a moment, Wiggins could see a mad light flare up in her eyes as she lifted her head to look at him.

 

“Dear Johnny, you will never be free of me and I think you shall pay for that.”

 

A low growl came out of Sherlock. “I see the wolf is still a wee bit there, Sherlock. Perhaps I should keep you and turn you into the wolf permanently, hmmm?” She leaned closer to John, touched his shoulder, circled around him and spoke in a carrying whisper. “Yes, of course it was my idea. He was just going to kill you. Dull. He had no imagination. It’s a wonder I didn’t get him out of the way sooner. I guess he had his uses and he was far easier to control than he ever knew. I was right there, whispering words, telling him what to do, like a little spider curled up in his ear. I suggested the curse. I worked the spell.” She walked back toward where Mary was tethered. She ran a hand lovingly through Mary’s short fur. Then she turned and beamed at them, before focusing her attention on John.

 

Skipping up to him, she asked, “was it you? Did you pull the trigger? Hmmm. I thought so. See, I couldn’t tell, but I know your type. Did you go all Neanderthal protecting your lover? Did Captain Watson come out to play?” She flicked John in the face hard enough to make him blink. “You killed something old and sacred when you killed Jim. Did you know? See, here’s something I bet you didn’t realize, because you are just so stupid.” She looked at Sherlock and winked at him, conspiratorially. “We weren’t just suddenly magic. We’ve been around for a very, very long time. In fact, you might say, we’re the reason behind the Change. You’re welcome,” she trilled.

 

“You caused the Change?” Wiggins exclaimed.

 

“Oh, it talks, too. How lovely. Yes, we did, James and I. Planned it for centuries. Worked our magic long and deep. We were rather tired of the way things were. We pushed the trigger and blew up society.”

 

“Please don’t tell me you did that you did it out of the kindness of you hearts. I would find it hard to believe you were environmentalists and were saving the trees or the badgers,” said Sherlock.

 

Janine looked honestly surprised and then broke into peals of laughter, bright and bell-like. “Oh good lord. No! Don’t be ridiculous. We were bored.”

 

“You were bored, so you broke the world?”

 

“Now you’re catching on. And I’m getting rapidly bored again, all this confession, getting it off of my chest. Time for something else. I have you all here, everyone in one place. Sherlock and John, my dear Mycroft and you,” she flipped her hand in Wiggins’ direction. “Mary’s brother, I believe, or Alice as you knew her. No matter. You are insignificant. Perhaps I’ll let you go. You can spread word of what happened here as a warning. Of course I could turn you over to your big sister. She could take care of you. She’s awfully hungry. Hasn’t eaten for days.”

 

A tilt of his head and Sherlock spoke. “All this self-aggrandizing and evil villain shtick doesn’t suit you.”

 

“Why? Because I’m a woman? How sexist of you.”

 

“Of course not. Don’t be more idiotic than you already are. It doesn’t suit you. Your desire for revenge has made you dull and slow-witted. If you were a little less bent on destruction and more savvy about how things really work perhaps you would have realized we did not come here alone.”

 

“If you mean Mycroft’s men, I already know about them. They’ll be taken care of.”

 

“No, not Mycroft’s.” And the slow smile, somewhat evil looking, lit upon Sherlock’s face. The corners curled up in a very contented expression. There was no humour in his eyes, just deep satisfaction.

 

At that moment an explosion outside rocked Appledore. Screams and shouting could be heard coming from the front of the building.

 

Jeanine whirled and ran toward the nearest window, her face no longer masked in grace. A true picture of how flawed she really was now adorned her face.

 

She stalked back toward Sherlock and hissed, “What have you done?”

 

“I? Nothing. We’re not the only ones who have felt Magnussen’s yoke. Your forces are now facing Lestrade and his people. And a lot of them have magic as well. Oh maybe not as fierce as your own, but it should keep you occupied. Of course, he’s late. Should have been here sooner, but that’s what you get not doing everything yourself. He was supposed to be creating a diversion for Magnussen. This works just as well, so I will probably forgive him.”

 

Her eyes darted wildly for a moment, but she drew herself up and spoke, her voice once more calm and soothing, her emotions under control. “No matter. It’s sad it couldn’t last. I guess it’s time for me to leave.” She turned to go, but came back. They all knew she’d planned the move. “But before I do, I think I should leave you with a little present. I could curse you again, make it stick, leave the two of you as animals, pining for each other, different species, not even knowing why you were unable to love others of your own species. But that would be too generous of me.” She shrugged. “You’re right Sherlock, I should have just killed you both, but I didn’t. I think I’ll fix that now, but I’m only going to kill one of you.” She cast her hand as is she was going to throw something invisible toward John and began to utter fierce words under her breath. Before she could finished the move, three bodies hurdled themselves toward her.

 

The look on Sherlock’s face, he knew he was too slow; he didn’t have time to get to her and stop her. Wiggins moved too, but he wasn’t close enough.

 

There was only one who was. Mary lunged, her movements smooth and supple. The power in her muscles and the abruptness of the motion snapped the leash. Unfettered, she cried in rage and leapt on top of Janine. Janine held up her hands to ward off Mary, her shriek broken off mid-cry as Mary ripped out her throat.

 

Mary growled as she worried at the body on the ground and then looked up at the group, her muzzle and throat drenched in blood. No one moved, shocked by the suddenness of Janine’s death. Wiggins collapsed to his knees and he closed his eyes, pain lanced his heart. His sister would probably never be turned back now that Janine was dead. A deep sadness filled him for her. A wet nose snuffed his hair and he looked up, Mary was watching him, some sort of recognition deep inside her eyes. She batted at his hand and he placed it, shakily, upon her head. “Hey,” he said. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

 

“You all right?” John Watson placed a hand on his shoulder, his dark, blue eyes were filled with kindness and a matching sorrow graced his face.

 

“Yeah, I guess. I guess I am. Is it over, now?”

 

John stood up straighter, turned to where Sherlock was standing and smiled softly. “It is.”

 

Sherlock’s long legs crossed the floor to John and he pulled him into a fierce hug. His hands came up and encased John’s face once more. “You are never leaving my side, ever.”

 

John laughed quietly. “You might get sick of me after a few days.”

 

Sherlock answered by pulling John into a kiss once more, broken only by Lestrade appearing at the door. “Did we miss anything?”

 

 

oOo

 

After disposing of Janine’s body, Mycroft and Lestrade’s men went over the grounds of Appledore and returned once more to the Tower of London, gathering the bodies of Janine’s forces and their own people. Two separate pyres were built in the former courtyard.

 

Lestrade stood watching and in spite of the cold air blowing off of the river, he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Mycroft stood beside him.

 

“Now what?” he asked.

 

“Now we rebuild,” said Mycroft. “Turn this city back to the people who now inhabit it.”

 

“That easy, is it?”

 

“No, I suspect not. I believe it will take hard work, for someone who is determined to do so.”

 

“That’d be you?”

 

“Me? Of course not me, Gregory. I have never been interested in being in charge. I’d rather return to what I was doing before the change, occupying a minor position in whatever government is created here.” He smiled at Lestrade, a slightly warmer smile than he would have shared with anyone else.

 

“Who’d you think would be interested in running the city?”

 

“Come now, Gregory. You ask a lot of questions. We must see about arranging for your investiture into office.”

 

“Are you insane?”

 

Mycroft stood and looked Lestrade up and down. “No, of course not. You have proven yourself to be a capable leader. You work well with both the human population and the Fey. You are also well liked, therefore, you would make an admirable leader.”

 

“And you’d be there, behind me all the way.” There was a slight edge to Lestrade’s voice.

 

“Of course. Just think of all the good we could do. I have the knowledge and the means. You have the commanding presence and self-restraint. We would be a formidable team.”

 

Lestrade crossed his arms and looked very seriously at Mycroft. “I will think about it. But you are not to go behind my back and try setting up a Mycroftian dictatorship just because you think you can or should.”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I would only do what was right and true. That’s all I have ever done.”

 

“Uh huh. We’ll see.”

 

They continued to watch the grim workings in the courtyard.

 

“Where did Sherlock and John get to? I wanted to talk to them,” Lestrade asked after a while.  


Mycroft sighed, a long-suffering sound. “Where do you think he’d be after being intimately separated from his partner for the better part of two years?”

 

Lestrade winced and then broke into a hearty laugh.

 

“Can’t say as I blame him.”

 

Mycroft just nodded, resigned.

 

oOo

 

Wiggins sat, sheltered from the wind in a corner of the wall, facing the sun, no longer blocked by the moon. He watched Mycroft Holmes speak to Lestrade, not even remotely interested in what they were discussing. Although, judging from the look on Lestrade’s face, the leader of the underground city was about to have his worldview shifted.

 

Mary, forever removed from him as a sister, sat curled up at his feet. She was sleeping. Wiggins had found some food and water for her after the dealings in the throne room. She had been half starved, and he had been careful she not gorge herself. He sighed, uncertain of what he should do now.

 

A shadow crossed in front of him. Wiggins lifted a hand to shade his eyes and found Mycroft Holmes standing in front of him.

 

“William.”

 

Wiggins smiled, a sad, small smile, but in spite of everything, he found he still had his sense of humour.

 

“Mycroft,” he said equally grave. Mycroft’s eyebrow twitched.

 

“I am sorry for the loss of your sister. If we had been able to undo her curse before Janine had died, we would have done so.”

 

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been thinking about that. Alice here, or I guess I should still call her Mary, ‘cause after all, she’s been Mary longer than she was Alice. She, uh, she was a serval almost all the time, wasn’t she? Not like Sherlock and Dr. Watson. She never got a chance to be human in between. So I think, in my heart, she just ain’t anymore, if you get my meaning. Human, I mean. She always was a bit wild. This just suits her. I always thought she’d died, so maybe it’s better this way.”

 

Mycroft looked out into the distance, his expression thoughtful. His piercing gaze returned to Wiggins. “It is my understanding that she was cursed at a different time than my brother and Dr. Watson. It may have been that we would never have or never will be unable to unravel Janine’s. You may be quite correct in stating that Mary’s humanity may have left long ago.” He sighed. “I am still sorry for both of you and wish there was something I could do to make it up to you. You have proved yourself to be a brave and loyal friend to my brother and his partner. I can offer you employment. I can always use a man of your unique qualifications.’

 

Wiggins chuckled softly. “Thanks just the same, Mr. Holmes. I don’t think we’d suit each other. I might ask your brother though. He’s more my style. Besides, maybe someday he’ll let me take over the business. I could be his apprentice.” The sad smile brightened and a wicked twinkle gleamed in his eyes.

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Lord save us all,” he muttered.

 


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here you go:D I finally got these two together and I think they are happy about it:D Hopefully you will be, too:D
> 
> I was joking with mattsloved1 about this & telling her I was writing The Sex – she laughed and said she liked the title of this chapter – well it would fit with the other chapter titles;D Thanks for your help with the ending as well – wouldn’t have worked without you.
> 
> Sadly, I’ll settle for the more boring Epilogue:P

Six months had passed. Winter was nearing its end and spring was making its presence know through birdsong and flowers poking up through the grass. The Gryffins had come back to roost in the remains of an old office building near the Thames.

 

It had been a hard winter, one of change. Not all were willing or pleased to see a new leader run London. Fortunately, after a month of Lestrade’s firm but fair rule, people began to see the benefit of having someone who had their best interests at heart. Something The Mage never had. Neither had Janine.

 

John stood at the open window. The before dawn breeze wafted in, hinted at the new growing things with a green and lush smell, rich and redolent. It evoked feelings of joy in John. Spring had come early and it was shaping up to being a glorious one.

 

Even after six months back as himself, he still awoke to the call of the sun cresting the horizon. He couldn’t ignore the need to get out of bed, rain or shine and welcome the beginning of the new day. He felt he would never get tired of seeing the sun creep over the horizon. Some days, if they were travelling and outside he could actually see the light shift and the muted colours deepen and glow. At Baker Street, he couldn’t see the sun directly from the bedroom window; it was more visible from the living room. He was able to see the sky lightening and the old buildings slowly become more discernible.

 

Seeing wasn’t always necessary. The yoke of the rotation of the earth and the appearance of the sun was still felt in his molecules. A tingle and a shudder crawled across his skin as his muscles remembered old pain. The liquid flow of change was marked permanently in the memory of his cells and dawn and dusk still caused twitches of unease. They probably always would.

 

A faint sound came from the bed behind him as the bedclothes rustled and moved. The mental image that accompanied the sound of Sherlock, naked and lying under the thin sheet, barely covering his hips, caused a sudden downward flow of blood. A small grin lit his face. It didn’t matter that they’d made love only hours ago. He felt more than ready to go back to the warm arms and lanky legs waiting for him.

 

“John,” a beloved voice whispered, husky with sleep and other things. “Come back to bed. The sun isn’t going anywhere. Must you always get up to see it and leave me here cold and alone?”

 

John chuckled. “Git. You are not nearly as tragic as you sound. I’m coming.” He padded back to their bed and crawled in close to Sherlock.

 

“Ow! You’re freezing.” Sherlock’s voice took on a distinct whine, but instead of drawing away from John’s much cooler skin, he swung a leg over him and wrapped his long arm around his waist. Beginning with a combination of pulling John toward him and scooting closer, he ended with John’s head tucked under his chin. Sherlock then swaddled them in the blankets from the foot of the bed. Their breathing slowed and John was slipping back into a light doze. He opened his eyes a bit when Sherlock nuzzled his ear.

 

“I don’t know why you insist upon looking at the sun every morning,” Sherlock muttered.

 

“I dunno. I just need to see it I guess. Sometimes it’s impossible to believe I’m not going to change and fly out the window.” He paused. “I still feel the pull of the sky. I dream about soaring over the city and well, I guess I miss it. A little.”

 

Sherlock pushed back and lifted his head up off the pillow to look John full in the face. “You’re not serious.”

 

John lifted a hand to the back of Sherlock’s head, kneading the muscles there. “Don’t be stupid. I don’t miss the pain of changing into a bird and I don’t miss missing you so much I thought my heart would break from it. I don’t miss that. But I think we can be miserable about what we went through or we can look at it as a gift. I remember flying. I remember the power of the hawk, his incredible eyesight and diving at breakneck speeds to pull up close to the ground. I can feel a mouse in my hands, er, the hawk’s claws and the thrill of catching and eating it too.” He grinned at the face Sherlock was pulling. “I’m not saying I want to go back to that and, ew no, I’d rather not catch and eat my dinner live, but I don’t know. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not going to throw the experience away.”

 

Sherlock was thoughtful for a minute. “I do sometimes wish I’d retained some of the wolf’s ability to smell. I certainly could use it to solve cases. Even though my sense of smell is far superior to the average male’s, I do regret not having the wolf’s. It was almost visible. However, I shall not miss the loss of control and the regressing into pure instinct.” He tucked John back under his chin and ran his hand down John’s back and back up again, light but with a pleasant pressure. Every sweep down went lower until he was brushing over John’s arse, pausing to grip it now and then.

 

John grinned into Sherlock’s chest and kissed the skin there. “I take it we’re not going to sleep anymore.”

 

“Sleeping is overrated.” Sherlock ducked his head down to John and kissed him on the mouth, slowly and softly. Deepening the kiss, he pushed John over onto his back and covered him with his longer body. John groaned into Sherlock’s mouth as their skin touched. One hand reached into the dark curls on Sherlock’s head and the other wrapped around Sherlock and pulled him as closely as he could, close enough that their skin was in complete contact. He felt that urge, low in his belly to pull Sherlock right into him, make them one. The need to consume and absorb him surged through him. Their kissing took on a more frantic edge as Sherlock began to rock forward, pushing his hips down.

 

John broke off the kiss to pull more air into his lungs. “God, Sherlock,” he gasped. In reply Sherlock reached between them and grasped them both, causing John to make louder, lovely sounds of want and need.

 

Sherlock lifted himself up on one hand and looking intently into John’s eyes, he moved his hand back and forth, increasing the motion incrementally, until he reached just the right speed to keep them both on edge without tipping over.

 

John moved and wiggled until his legs were free and he spread them wide. Sherlock lurched up onto his knees. John grinned up at him, a grin full of promise, but his eyes were darkened with lust and love. Sherlock had to lean down and kiss him again his heart ached so.

 

John flung a hand around for the jar of lubricant Sherlock had made. It had been lost somewhere in the bed last night. He hummed triumphantly when his hand finally encountered it and he held it up, banging lightly on Sherlock’s arm to get his attention.

 

Sherlock kissed him again and sat up, snagging the jar. Slowly, maddeningly he prepared John, and then finally, wonderfully, he entered. He rocked into him and it was honeyed-sweet and perfect. What was between them built gradually, wave after wave, poised to crest. There was no urgency; that had happened in the night, when the sex was hot and rough. In the new day’s light, it was more about becoming one entity.

 

Still maintaining eye contact with John, he began to speak, in his dark, rich voice. “You, John, it’s always been you. You are my sun and stars. You are the moon and the east wind. You are the cause and effect, the pull of the tides on the moon and the inexorable pull of gravity. You are the one who changed me. Shaking, he moaned, “You are mine and I am yours.” With those words, he came and John followed shortly afterward.

 

There was silence except for the return of steadier breathing. For a time there was tranquility. Finally, mostly recovered, Sherlock lifted his head out of the crook of John’s neck and looked down, smiling into the face of his heart and soul, his other half. He would say the better half and John would say he was wrong, but it didn’t really matter. They knew, knew deep inside and with every touch and sigh and every kiss, that there would never be another separation, there would never be a time where one would go and the other couldn’t follow. They knew that nothing, not even evil or magic or death would ever be able to separate them.

 

Through adversity, struggle and heartbreak, they had become something unbreakable. Their spirits might be a little tarnished but the fire had never completely destroyed them; it had only forged them, transmuted into something stronger.


End file.
